


You're A Terrible Cat, Cowboy

by InNovaFertAnimus



Series: We don't have to match [1]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Alternate Universe - Urban Fantasy, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Fey!Gaby, Fluff, Hunter!Illya, Hurt/Comfort, Multi, Pre-OT3, Shapeshifter!Napoleon, cat!fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-17
Updated: 2017-06-17
Packaged: 2018-09-16 15:14:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 36,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9277631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InNovaFertAnimus/pseuds/InNovaFertAnimus
Summary: Napoleon knows he should keep his head down. He belongs to Sanders and there is nothing he can do about it. That is, until Sanders locks him into his weakest form and throws him out.He didn’t expect to be picked up by the very Hunter who is to blame for his situation. And he sure as hell didn’t expect himself to stay.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [screamingarrows](https://archiveofourown.org/users/screamingarrows/gifts).



> Thanks to my awesome Beta Ursa_Es.
> 
> This is a very late Birthday/Christmas present for screamingarrows! I know you've already read the first few chapters, so you'll have to wait a little longer for the new stuff. Nevertheless I hope you enjoy your gift ;)
> 
> Please note that while this fic itself is not overly dark, it touches some darker topics. There are warnings at the end of each chapter just in case.
> 
> (Surprisingly, this is not a promptfill. I can't quite believe it myself yet.)

The foyer is filled with people, every one dressed in their finest suits and robes, jewelry glittering from their necks, wrists and hands. It’s a pity that Napoleon is under strict Commands for this mission, or he would have picked something to add to his collection. If he was avian, he would definitely be a magpie.

Napoleon pretends to laugh at the suggestive joke the woman in front of him told him, while he places the second to last charm. She’s at least fifteen years his senior, which doesn’t seem to bother her much judging by the not quite casual way she leans into his space. It’s unpleasant, but it’s neither the first nor the worst “accidental” grope he’s had to endure in his life.

He noticed the man leaning against the wall the second he set foot into the theater. He blends in well enough, but the fact that he’s towering over everyone else made him catch Napoleon’s eye. Despite the rather noticeable scar on his temple, it’s his posture that sets Napoleon off. It’s nothing more than a feeling, but he knows his instincts are rarely wrong.

He excuses himself from the lady to place the last charm near the exit, completing the pentagram. The artefact he needs to get his hands on is sealed somewhere below the stage. It’s a rather complicated system of spells, unlocking only with a tripartite key, the pieces divided between the owner of the theater, the director and the stage manager. All of which are here today. It’s a good thing that Napoleon never had problems with acquiring the means to get into places he doesn’t belong in.

His last charm is an engraved coin waiting in the pockets of his pants. He gets himself another glass of champagne from a passing waiter and takes a last look around the room. He catches the tall man watching him again. Napoleon doesn’t care if he made himself suspicious anymore. He raises his glass in his direction in greeting, takes the coin out of his pocket and flips it.

There’s time enough to take a sip of champagne before the coin hits the ground. Napoleon can feel the spell strike through the room. Instantly the ambient noise ceases. He sets his glass down on a nearby table as the other patrons freeze. As he starts forward, a barely audible gasp disrupting the silence makes Napoleon wheel around again.

The blond man looks around the room, his eyes slightly widened in surprise. The spell didn’t work on him. It’s Napoleon’s turn to freeze. He doesn’t make mistakes, the spell was perfect. How is this possible?

Their gazes meet across the space in the unmoving crowd. The man takes a single step towards Napoleon and the spell implodes.

With an inward curse Napoleon swings around to leave the foyer through the back. He can hear the other man pushing his way through the people, who resume their chattering as if nothing happened at all.

As soon as Napoleon is in the empty hallway, he blocks the door behind him with one of the pedestals decorating the corridor and continues his way, quickening his steps. He hadn’t gone far before the handles of the door rattle violently. He’s barely made his way out of the building when he hears the pedestal crash.

A Hunter, it has to be. It’s just Napoleon’s luck that a Hunter shows up tonight.

Napoleon jogs down to the streets and snatches the car keys off one unsuspecting couple coming late to the performance. He’s already behind the wheel, before they realize that he’s not one of the valets parking the cars.

The Hunter runs down the steps when Napoleon takes off. The streets of East Berlin are almost empty, so he doesn’t hesitate to stomp down on the gas pedal.

The gunshot was nothing Napoleon expected. He grabs the steering wheel tighter, as the car careens from side to side. The screeching from the back of the car loudly broadcasts where the bullet hit.

Napoleon takes a look at the rear view mirror and nearly crashes into a light post. The Hunter is running after him. On foot. And constantly gaining ground.

“You can’t be serious.”

He can only watch as the man closes on the car. The man, or whatever he is, grabs the handles of the trunk and plants his feet firmly on the ground.

He’s trying to stop the car with his bare hands. Definitely not human. With a breathless laugh Napoleon watches the dashboard as the car struggles against him and _loses_. It would be hilarious, if Napoleon wasn’t the one trying to escape in said car.

With a sudden crunch the cover of the trunk gives up. Napoleon meets the other man’s gaze through the mirror as he staggers to a halt with the chunk of metal still in his hands. Freed of the resistance the car picks up speed. The cover of the trunk thrown after it misses just by a few inches. When the Hunter starts to run after the car again, Napoleon knows that he can’t hope to get away like this.

Napoleon sweeps the car into the next back alley and braces himself. As he guessed the alley was only a few feet short. He steps on the brakes, but it is useless. The car crashes against the wall at the end of the alley with still considerable speed. The impact throws him against the steering wheel and knocks the air out of his lungs. Still he loses no more time to kick out the shattered glass of the windshield. The hole is not big enough to fit a grown man, but it doesn’t have to be.

Napoleon changes.

The feeling is not comparable to anything else in the world. His whole body just shifts, his flesh and bones turning into another form as easy as breathing. It only takes a blink of an eye to complete the change. On light paws he jumps through the hole in the glass. He hops off the hood of the car and crouches between a dumpster and some cardboard boxes. His black fur blends in perfectly in the darkness of the alley.

It’s not long before the Hunter rounds the corner. Napoleon watches silently as he draws his gun again before he closes in. He pauses shortly when he finds the car empty and looks around. In the distance sirens start to blare. Their little race didn’t go unnoticed then. The man curses silently and rips open the door of the car. He takes out the clothes, which Napoleon had to leave in the driver’s seat, and looks around again. Napoleon closes his eyes, so their reflection from the sparse light doesn’t give him away, and ducks a little deeper.

By the time he opens them again, the man is gone.

* * *

“He’s here.”

Napoleon can barely hold in a sigh, but it doesn’t help his situation anyway. Not that he can think of anything, which could help him, but that doesn’t mean he’s set on making things even worse. Wordlessly he follows Jones into the other room.

Sanders sits in one of the armchairs, the TV babbling in the background. Something about freedom, protection and all the stuff that lost its meaning to Napoleon a long time ago.

Sanders doesn’t even face him as he starts to talk, which is totally fine with Napoleon.

“So where is the artifact?”

Napoleon knows that Sanders knows exactly where it is, which is to say, not with him, so he doesn’t bother to answer that question.

“A Hunter was waiting for me.”

There is that small huff of a laughter, condescending without even needing to word it out. “Don’t flatter yourself. We’re on their turf. They’re waiting for your kind on every corner.”

“You don’t understand. _What_ was waiting for me was not human.”

He couldn’t really discern what exactly the man was, but he wasn’t just baseline. Enhanced strength and endurance possibly, but definitely some kind of magical abilities.

“Hunters only recruit humans, you know that.”

Napoleon tries to keep the anger out of his voice. Of course he knows, but he knows what he’s seen. “It wasn’t human. It tore the spell in half in just a moment. I can –“

Sanders stands up abruptly.

“Tell me again, what you can and cannot do, Solo.” He flicks his fingers. The light catches on the ring on Sander’s pinky. Napoleon can’t help but look. Every time he sees it it’s the same shock all over again, even after all these years. It’s not right. It doesn’t belong to Sanders, it belongs to _him._ He swallows the words down before they spill out.

Sanders smirks and steps in close.

“In case you don’t remember, _I_ am the one that gets to decide over this.”

He lets his gaze wander down. Napoleon flinches when Sanders slips a hand into his shirt collar and pulls it down a little. “I know you’ve been sneaking out on your own. I don’t let you out in daylight enough to get a tan-line this time of the year. Did you think I don’t know about the stashes you keep?”

Napoleon curses inwardly. He thought he covered his tracks well enough. “Sir –“

“Enough.”

Sanders steps back a little. “I don’t think you are aware of your unique privileges.”

Napoleon can’t help but scoff this time.

A spark of magic runs up his legs and makes him flinch. Sanders extends the hand with Napoleon’s ring on it towards him. “Don’t move.” Napoleon can feel his muscles lock in place in their own accord. He hides his discomfort as he meets Sanders gaze. The sorcerer’s eyes hold that glint again, anger and contempt bubbling below the surface.

“Change.”

Napoleon’s mind barely registered the Command, but his body complies instantly. A white hot pain shoots through his head and his lower back. He lets out a gasp, but the first Command is still active, so he can’t do anything else. The pain of a forced change is always a surprise to him. It’s unnatural for switching between his forms to hurt, least of all the smallest change he’s capable of. The pointy ears now poking out on the top of his head sting as does his tail, his body not yet accommodating to the different anatomy, the nerves misfiring. His tongue pokes the sore spots where his fangs elongated.

“Undress.”

He barely has the time to glare at Sanders, before his body bends down to untie his laces. He tries to fight the Command although he knows it’s fruitless. He hates this, even more than the constant sneer of the other operatives, more than taking orders from the Circle, more than risking his life because they think it’s fun to bet on if he makes it or not. Seeing his hands move, working against his will, is the worst. He’s well aware that his life doesn’t belong to himself, but the feeling of his own fingers touching himself like a stranger is something completely different.

Before long he’s completely naked, his clothes carelessly scattered around him.

“On your knees.”

The force of the Command makes him hit the ground hard. His tail twitches.

With a smirk Sanders conjures a collar in his hands. Napoleon can only watch as Sanders leans down and wraps it around his throat. It’s uncomfortably tight, digging into his skin and impossible to forget.

Sanders is still smiling when he rises. “This is your place.” He extends his hand and grabs one of Napoleon’s ears, fingers running through the soft fur.

“You’re not human. You’re not fey. You’re not even part of the chimera or the dark breed.”

He closes his hand to a fist, squeezing Napoleon’s ear painfully.

“You’re a beast, a _pet_ Solo, your kind always has been. This is the only use for shapeshifters.”

He tilts his head to the side and lets his gaze wander down. Napoleon’s never been shy, but this makes him want to throw up.

“You know, I could just sell you off or rent you to one of these cathouses. A pretty feline like you would fetch quite a prize.”

Sanders’ threats are empty, Napoleon knows that. He’s their best operative, even if no one acknowledges that, but Napoleon has to fight a shiver. He’s been lucky enough not to have been part of such an establishment, but he visited one of them on a mission. He has seen the patrons checking out the cages, the lined up toys, the show stage. He would do almost anything to not end up there.

Sanders smiles again by the time he looks into Napoleon’s face.

“Like I said, I don’t think you appreciate enough how good you have it with us.”

He lifts his hand to hover it over Napoleon’s head. “I believe you need time to think about this. Change.”

This time agony shoots through his whole body. He can feel his skin tearing, his bones breaking. A scream escapes him. Suddenly his body is free again and he sags forward. The pain as his head hits the floor barely registers. He squeezes his eyes shut and curls in on his side as his body starts to change.

It takes only a few seconds, but it feels like hours. The pain doesn’t stop, only transforms. His body is on fire. He blinks his eyes open and notices the extra layer of skin. A haw. The colors of the room are dimmed, but the contours are sharper than before. He knows he’s lying on the ground, but Sanders looks huge. Another thing of forced changes, the few seconds in which he’s not sure _what_ he even is. The small white socked paws where his hands should have been clears it up pretty fast.

A cat. Sanders forced him into his cat form.

“Don’t change into another form, until I give the permission.”

The Command settles heavily on him, cutting off something in his core. For a second Napoleon can’t breathe. A part of him is blocked, the body Napoleon usually enjoys taking suddenly feels like a cage. Napoleon tries not to panic at the strange numbness, not in front of Sanders. Instead he looks up to Sanders and hisses. Only then he notices, that the collar is still around his throat. It changed with him, still tight. He paws at it, but the buckle stays closed. Sealed with a spell then.

Sanders huffs out a laughter. “That won’t come off. It should be enough to drive people away. I own you, don’t forget that. You may come back, when you have learned your lesson.”

He snaps his fingers in Jones’ direction. “Throw him out.”

Napoleon hisses again as Jones comes near him. He manages to get a good scratch on the other man’s hand, before he picks him up by his collar.  Napoleon tries to struggle, but his body still hurts too much to make it effective.

Jones takes him outside. It’s dark, cold and wet, an ordinary night in March. There was nobody to be seen on the streets, just a few shadows in the alleys. Jones walks behind the building and literally throws him in a dumpster.

“That’s for scratching me, bastard.”

Napoleon only has it in him to hiss as Jones turns away. When he can’t hear the man anymore, he gathers what’s left of his strength and hops out of the dumpster. He’s glad that cats always land on their feet, otherwise he probably would have hit his head again. Determined to put as much distance between him and Sanders, he grits his teeth against the pain and trots down the street until he finds a bag full of old rags. Too tired to care about the stench he drags them into the next alley and collapses on top of them. He curls into a tight ball and passes out.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for slavery, non-consentual undressing, threats of forced prostitution


	2. Chapter 2

As it turns out, Sanders wasn’t joking when he said the collar would drive people away. After the third kick Napoleon received he stops trying to seek out humans. He guesses it’s another spell that turns people against him. He knows from experience that he’s a rather charming cat. Now, the nicest thing anyone does for him in the streets is to ignore his existence.

He doesn’t know if the spell extends towards other living creatures or if the stray cats of Berlin just don’t like to share their territory. Napoleon might be able to claim a part of the alleys, he’s a good combatant, but his bones still ache from the change and the lack of food and real shelter begins to wear him down faster than he thought. 

Crawling back to Sanders and the Circle is not an option, but Napoleon grimly begins to realize it could be. As the days go by with little to no food in his stomach, he is aware that he can’t eat his pride and to his surprise he really doesn’t want to die. In the first years with the Circle he thought about the possibility of killing himself rather a lot, but only as some vague escape plan, if it gets really worse. It for sure got worse over the years, but he never considered it bad enough. Now he knows what it’s like to be one of these pathetic creatures that cling to their lives no matter how little there is left of it to live. He’s rather disappointed with himself, to be honest, but that doesn’t change anything.

He’s been on the streets for about two weeks. He lost a lot of weight and it gets harder to even go looking for food. He’s going to drag himself up when the sun sets, or so he tells himself. That leaves him a couple of hours to gather some strength. He tugs at the shredded clothes he stuffed into the cowboy hat to get more comfortable and curls in on himself. Sure, an old hat is not the most comfortable bed he’s ever slept in, but it was the best he could find. The alley he took residence in is ironically at the back of the theater Sanders sent him to. There are no dumpsters that contain food, so the stray cats don’t care for it much, but there are a few old requisites and costumes thrown out waiting to be discarded. It all makes for a relatively warm and sheltered hideout. Relatively, because of course it’s spring in Germany, and it rains every other day. To his dismay, today seems to be one of them. Napoleon dragged the hat against the wall, so he wouldn’t get too wet, but there are more than a few drops landing on him. He curls in tighter and wills himself to ignore the constant dripping. He soon finds himself dozing off despite the growing wetness, because the rain has either stopped or he really managed to block it out.

At least that’s what he thought until a hand settles on his neck. Napoleon jumps up in surprise, or rather he tries. The hand is holding him down effortlessly. He looks up, expecting to find one of the Circle’s goons come to drag him back, but it’s far worse.

The hand belongs to the blond Hunter.

He’s bent over Napoleon, his broad frame shielding him from the rain. Napoleon curses, but it comes out as a nasty hiss. So much for trying to survive. He tries to scratch or bite him, but the man doesn’t give him enough room to maneuver. How did he find him? How did he find him even in this form?  The brown fleck in his eyes, which is visible in all his forms, is a dead give-away, but he wasn’t that close to be seeen. He can’t possibly be running around the city checking every passing animal for the last few days, can he? Another one of his tricks then. Napoleon manages to twist a little and sinks his claws into the man’s wrist. It’s enough to draw blood, but the grip tightens further, leaving Napoleon practically immobile.

The soft shush comes as a surprise.

“Calm down Cowboy, I don’t want to hurt you.”

Napoleon didn’t expect the deep, gentle rumble of words nor the man speaking Russian to him. Both curious and too tired to keep on fighting he stops struggling.

The careful stroke down his back is an even bigger surprise.

“It’s going to be alright.”

Napoleon really doesn’t know what to make of that, especially when the Hunter starts to pet him for real. Napoleon can’t remember when he was petted last. The touch is both soothing and confusing. The spell on his collar has driven everybody else away, but it obviously doesn’t work on _him_.

The hand holding him down draws back, but the petting continues. Napoleon turns and sits himself up, so he can get a better picture of the man.

He wears a brown leather jacket with a black turtleneck peeking out and a rather ridiculous cap. His pants are grey, good quality but well worn. The careful smile on his face makes him look different from the inhuman thing that chased him through the city. If Napoleon didn’t see him tearing off the back of his car, he would say he even looks kind, the scar on his temple the only thing at odds with his surprising gentleness.

His fingers stroke over the collar around Napoleon’s neck.

“Did you run from home?”

Napoleon would laugh at that, if he could. The man turns the collar a little, probably looking for a tag or something, but there is nothing. He hums once and lets go of it. Somehow the collar feels looser now, but that is probably only because the buckle now presses into a new spot.

The Hunter looks around, like he did on their first encounter, then he opens his jacket and picks Napoleon up. With more gentleness than Napoleon thought the man capable of, he stuffs him in and pulls up the zipper. He supports Napoleon’s weight with one hand and leaves a little space so that he can still get fresh air. Napoleon should definitely be more concerned about a Hunter grabbing him and carrying him away, but he isn’t. It’s not like his situation could get much worse.

Even through the fabric of the turtleneck the man is incredibly warm. Not really sure where all this leads, Napoleon is more than ready at least to take advantage of that. He closes his eyes and lets the warmth seep into his body. Before he knows it he dozes off.

* * * 

He blinks his eyes open when he hears a door unlocking. From the view he gets as he sticks his head out they are in a rundown corridor. The Hunter takes the steps and carries Napoleon three stories up where he unlocks another door. Napoleon starts to squirm under the jacket. Instantly the zipper gets pulled down and Napoleon jumps out.

He’s in an equally rundown apartment. The living room doesn’t really deserve the title. There’s an old couch, a shabby table with two even shabbier chairs, nothing else. No pictures, no décor, not even drapes. There is a counter which separates the room from something remotely resembling a kitchen. Napoleon turns his head back to watch the Hunter take off his shoes and neatly arrange them next to the door. Huh. The man brought him home, who would have thought.

At least everything seems clean, which is more than Napoleon can say about himself right now. There’s a small part of him that hopes that the two doors on the far side of the room conceal a huge bedroom and a bath made of marble, but that part is also the one that hopes to get his ring back and free himself before he dies, so he knows better than to listen to it.

He’s about to inspect the kitchen for something to eat when he gets lifted up again. Surprised, he lets out a somewhat embarrassing mewl, as the man arranges him in his arms.

“I’m sorry. I can’t let you run around like that.”

He carries Napoleon towards one of the doors. The bathroom behind it is in the same state as the rest of the apartment, old but clean. The Hunter plugs up the basin with one hand and lets it fill with water, readjusting the temperature a few times. Napoleon stays cradled against the man’s chest, observing everything. In this form he’s not too fond of bathing, it somehow feels wrong. Still, he’s looking forward to leave all the dirt of the streets behind.  Satisfied with the state of the basin, the man’s free hand wanders to the collar around Napoleon’s neck again. He studies it for a few seconds and hums.

“We better get this off for bathing, what do you think Cowboy?”

Napoleon thinks that the new nickname he’s been given is stupid and that he had better look for a quick escape route for when the Hunter realizes the collar is spellbound. He begins to turn around in the man’s arms, but the grip tightens around him, holding him in place.

Napoleon hates this form for that, the weakness, the ease with which he can be manhandled by anybody minding his claws. The Hunter shushes him.

“It’s alright, I will be quick.”

Napoleon doesn’t know what he expected to happen, but it’s definitely not the buckle of the spelled collar opening without protest.

Napoleon watches dumbfounded as the man pulls it off and lays it down on the counter next to the basin. This is impossible. He’s more familiar with Sanders’ spells than he would like and nobody can just dismiss them like that. The sorcerer managed to get well above two hundred years old while appearing to be in his fifties, because of the spells he placed on himself, self-sustaining of course. Sanders is one of the greatest mages of the time and the Hunter has just dismissed his spell like it’s been woven by a sloppy apprentice.

He’s too stunned to make a fuss when the man lowers him into the basin. His fingers card through Napoleon’s fur, washing out weeks’ worth of filth.

The Hunter didn’t even seem to notice that he broke the spell on the collar. Even the most untalented baseline human would at least have felt something like a small electric shock at that.

The idea forming in Napoleon’s mind is just as impossible as the man currently scrubbing his paws.

He could be immune. A true Antimagus, shielded against any form of magic, breaking spells with a simple touch. It’s been a myth, not even a rumor, and yet here Napoleon is, being washed by a man who has blatantly  smashed two elaborate spells without even being aware of what he had done.

An immune Hunter. He’s probably Sanders worst nightmare in the flesh. The thought is more than amusing. He remembers the speech the sorcerer gives every new operative, the perils of rumors and imagination. Spells can be broken, but there is no such thing as immunity to magic. The blond man washing the dirt out of his fur is not imaginary for sure, but a peril he is.

The Peril is oddly careful with him though. Napoleon lets out an unhappy mewl when the man reaches under his belly, just to see how he would react. There’s an uttered apology and his touch gets even softer. It’s ridiculous really.

Just as promised, it’s over soon. The man lifts him out of the basin and on top of a towel he spread out over a sideboard. He’s still careful as he rubs Napoleon dry. To Napoleon’s dismay he gets picked up again and carried back into the living room. On any other day he would have given the Peril a few good scratches for picking him up like a doll every two seconds, but since everyone else turned his back on him, he lets it pass. At least he gets set down as soon as the man closes the door to the bathroom behind him.

Napoleon makes a quick tour through the living room, getting to know the layout a little better, jumping on the couch and table, testing out the boundaries. The Peril stays leaning against the wall next to the door to the bathroom though, his arms crossed in front of his chest, but a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. In response Napoleon makes a show of sinking his claws into the armrest of the couch.

The old fabric tears audibly, but the Peril stays relaxed. It’s worrying really. Napoleon doesn’t trust anyone, who doesn’t react to any ruse. Napoleon takes a second look at the couch. Or maybe the Hunter is just well aware of its worthlessness. Some part of Napoleon wants to tease the Russian further, but that would require more drastic measures and they are not really Napoleon’s style. He won’t ever piss or shit into a living room, if he has a choice. It’s a small dignity, but it’s all he has left. He may be locked in the body of a cat, but that doesn’t mean he is an animal. At least not as long as he can stave it off.

Peril continues watching him flex his claws, then he heads over to the kitchen. Napoleon follows him with his eyes across the room. The Hunter rummages through the cupboards for a while, until he pulls out a can.

As soon as he opens it, the smell of tuna wafts over to Napoleon. He can’t remember anything that smelled that good in his life. He immediately jumps off the couch and runs to the kitchen in hope of some leftovers. Vaguely, he is reminded of the pathetic state he has sunk to, but his empty stomach couldn’t care less.

He rubs his body against the man’s legs to get his attention, but he doesn’t even look down as he clears the contents of the can on a plate. Napoleon contemplates jumping on the counter and just stealing as much as he can manage and risk getting thrown out, when Peril takes the plate and sets it down on the floor right in front of Napoleon’s nose.

Napoleon doesn’t even hesitate. Which is all kinds of stupid. If he dies because he’s taking food from a Hunter, then he deserves it. He has to force himself not to gobble everything in under three seconds, so he won’t make himself sick. It’s just plain tuna, but he finds himself licking the plate clean and wanting more.

As before, he sees the Peril leaning against the wall not far from him. He takes the plate from Napoleon and rinses it off. And then Napoleon notices another small bowl with water right next to him. He drinks a little and savors the taste of clean water, but it’s not enough to his newly awakened hunger. Napoleon hops on the counter and looks at Peril expectantly. The man seems to catch on pretty fast what Napoleon wants. Peril shakes his head and gets a towel to dry the plate.

“I don’t have anything left for you.”

He reaches out and runs his hand over Napoleon’s back. Napoleon lets him.

“I’ll go out in the morning and get you something, yes?”

The Hunter repeats the motion once again with a frown. “You’re really skinny. How long have you been out there?”

Napoleon just looks at him. He hopes the man doesn’t expect an actual answer from a cat.

With nothing else to do he waits for Peril to put the plate away and follows him out of the kitchen. The man looks behind him with a curious expression as Napoleon continues to follow him around. That is, until the door to the bathroom closes in his face.

Napoleon lets out an undignified huff. He didn’t even lock the door. Napoleon could easily open it. Instead he turns his attention to the other door in the Hunter’s home. With a well-aimed jump he catches the handle. The door swings open easily.

The bedroom behind it is just as sparse as the rest of the apartment, so no surprise here. Still the mattress is probably softer than anything Napoleon slept on in too long a time.

He jumps up the bed and claims the pillow for himself. It’s harder to fluff a pillow without hands than Napoleon thought, but he manages after a few minutes and curls up on top of it. As unlikely as it is, he’s tired from everything that happened just now. He never thought that being washed and fed could be so exhausting.

The shower starts to run in the bathroom next door. Although Napoleon is rather clean now, what would he give to take a shower. A real shower, in his human form, or at least humanoid. It’s not that he doesn’t like his other forms, but there are some sensations that don’t feel right in them. Warm water running down his skin is one of them. He lets himself fantasize about it a bit until he hears the water cut off.

Not long after, Peril enters the bedroom. He turned out the lights in the other rooms, so Napoleon’s night vision provides him with details. Peril’s hair is still a little damp and he’s only wearing pajama bottoms. His bare chest is well defined, although he’s not as bulky as Napoleon used to be. What Napoleon didn’t expect are all the scars littering his skin. There’s barely a square inch that isn’t marked. It looks like he’s been shredded. Napoleon can identify claw marks, bites, burns, stab wounds, gunshots and what looks like a brand in the center of his chest. The worst is the one at the bottom of his throat. The scar is raised and jagged, going in a slight curve from one side of his neck to the other. It looks like someone tried to cut his throat. It makes Napoleon both shudder and wanting to know what happened to him. He doubts that all Hunters look like that.

Peril crosses the room and switches on the small light on his bedside table. He stops when he sees Napoleon lying on his pillow.

“That’s mine, Cowboy. You can’t sleep there.”

Napoleon raises his head, but doesn’t move from the spot. He won’t give up the pillow without a fight. Peril throws Napoleon a nonplussed look and sighs.

Slowly Peril extends an arm and reaches to him. Napoleon watches his hand curiously as it comes nearer. Peril pokes him in the side, but it’s more of a gentle nudge than a forceful shove. Rather unimpressed Napoleon stays where he is and wonders how this Peril could even have become a Hunter, when he can’t even throw a cat out of his own bed.

Napoleon might be amused by how Peril seems to think he might break in half by trying to shove him off a pillow, but he realizes he’s also tired. Maybe they could meet halfway. After what is maybe the seventh nudge he gets up, pointedly makes two steps, so he’s on the edge of the pillow, and curls up again.

Peril huffs out something close to a laugh. “Thank you, Cowboy.”

The mattress dips under Peril’s weight as he lies down as well. He reaches past Napoleon to switch off the light before lowering his head on the now shared pillow.

Napoleon stiffens as Peril’s hand strokes over his back, before relaxing into the touch. It’s still strange to be petted, but Napoleon guesses it could be worse. The sensation of fingers running through his fur is actually nice.

“Sleep well, Cowboy.”

Despite all the strange things happening today, Napoleon thinks he actually will.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for mention of suicidal thoughts


	3. Chapter 3

Napoleon isn’t surprised that Peril gets up when the first rays of sunshine fall through the windows. Fortunately all he gets is a soft pat before he’s left alone again. Napoleon stretches out on the pillow he no longer has to share and listens with half an ear for Peril. It’s not long before Peril leaves the apartment. This would be the perfect opportunity for Napoleon to go through Peril’s belongings without causing suspicion, but it’s been so long since he’s felt even remotely as safe and well as he is now that he wants to savor the feeling as long as he can. He won’t stay for longer than a few days anyway.

He dozes until he hears the door open again. Slowly he stretches himself and gets up. He hops out of the bed and joins Peril in the living room to catch the man setting down two large brown paper bags on the small table. On silent paws he sneaks towards the table and jumps up the table directly in front of Peril.

Peril startles a little, which makes Napoleon kind of pleased with himself, then he gives that small wondering smile again as he stretches his hand out towards Napoleon. With an internal sigh Napoleon allows him to stroke over his head once, although his fingers feel like ice. Peril was probably that kind of child that always wanted a pet, but never got one.

“Slept well, Cowboy? I got you breakfast.”

Napoleon lets out a small purr at the idea of more food. Now definitely more interested in the content of the bags, Napoleon starts to circle them. He gives Peril ten seconds to start to unload them, before he’s going to tear them open himself.  Fortunately, Peril is faster than his claws.

His excitement receives a hard blow however when the first can gets set down on the table. Cat food, and the really cheap kind. Napoleon should have expected something like this. Anything else would have been too good to be true.

Peril empties out the first bag and assembles cans with probably every single flavor he could get his hands on. Pretty much every one in Napoleon’s experience tastes rather awful, but he gives Peril credit for trying.

Peril looks them over for a few seconds, then picks one and opens it on the way to the kitchen. Just like last night Peril serves it to Napoleon on a small plate. Napoleon got a glance at the empty can on the kitchen counter. Something with chicken from the look of it. He takes a small bite and it is as awful as he expected it to be. He’s really glad for his altered taste buds or he would throw it back up instantly.

He looks up to Peril pitifully. The man seems to get the message instantly and sighs.

“I’m sorry, money is tight for the next two weeks. I’ll get you something better when I can.”

Napoleon looks back at the cat food in front of him. Giving himself a silent pep talk, he takes another bite. He’s had worse in the streets. At least he can be sure it won’t give him food poisoning. He clears the plate with little enthusiasm, but it stops his nagging hunger.

While he had his so called meal, Peril unpacked the other bag. In it is a cheap litter box, which he brings to the bathroom. Napoleon wants to sigh again. Being stuck in his cat form really starts to grate on his nerves, now that he doesn’t have to worry about starving for the time being.

Peril emerges from the bathroom with his eyes on the watch on his wrist and heads straight into the bedroom. Curious, Napoleon follows him.

He finds Peril rummaging through the closet. There’s a duffle bag on the bed, but Napoleon can’t see what’s in there from the floor. He hops on the bed and peeks inside.

Almost instantly a large pair of cold hands grips him and sits him down on the ground again. He would try once more, but Peril’s fingers are insistent.

“This is too dangerous for you to stick your nose in, Cowboy. I don’t want you to hurt yourself.”

Napoleon obeys for now, but stays in the bedroom. Peril frowns a little at him, but Napoleon doesn’t move from his spot. After a few moments Peril grumbles something and gets back to the closet. Napoleon watches, as he takes out a sheathed hunting knife and drops it in the bag on the bed. Quite a few different weapons follow, some specifically crafted to be used against creatures and magic users, some just brutal.

It’s strange how fast Napoleon forgot who the man he’s staying with really is. Peril, who  took him in and fed him without blinking an eye, is going to spend his day hunting and killing everything supernatural that crosses his path. He will probably kill Napoleon on the spot the second he finds out what he really is.

Napoleon carefully backs out of Peril’s way when he turns to leave the bedroom. He watches him as he refills Napoleon’s bowl of water. The small smile on his face, as he turns to Napoleon with one hand at the door, is completely at odds with the bag of arms he’s carrying.

“I come back in the evening. Behave yourself, Cowboy.”

With that he’s gone.

Napoleon knows he has to leave rather sooner than later.

* * *

When Peril enters the apartment again, Napoleon keeps his distance. The man chucks off his shoes and jacket and disappears into the bedroom, probably to put away his weapons. When he emerges, his small smile is back and Napoleon has to remind himself that Peril is his enemy, even when he doesn’t know it yet.

Peril opens another can for Napoleon, but this time Napoleon waits until Peril steps away from the plate. The smell is indiscernible and the taste is bad, which is nothing new. Peril collects the plate and stretches his hand out in Napoleon’s direction. Napoleon watches his hand coming closer and turns away before it touches him. The Peril frowns a little, but doesn’t chase after Napoleon. The man cleans up and disappears into the bedroom returning with a chessboard in his hands. Napoleon watches from afar, as he sets it up on the small table and begins to play against himself. Napoleon doesn’t know if he should find it pitiful or just plain weird. But what did he expect for the spare time activity of a trained killer? Collecting cats and playing chess is still better than slicing up said cats for practice.

Napoleon gets himself comfortable on the couch and keeps an eye on the Hunter. The man plays two rounds, black wins, then white, before he puts the set away.

He throws Napoleon a small smile, as he sees him lounging on the couch.

“I guess I don’t have to share my pillow tonight then.”

He takes a few steps towards him, but sees the tensing of Napoleon’s body and stops. His smile falls a little and he leaves Napoleon alone. “Good night, Cowboy.”

Still, when the man leaves for his bed, he doesn’t fully close the door behind him.

* * *

They fall into something like a routine. The Peril gets up, gives Napoleon breakfast, packs his bag and is out the door for the day. In the evening, again food for Napoleon, then chess, then sleeping. Peril catches on pretty fast. He stops trying to come near Napoleon after the first time Napoleon bites his fingers for brushing his back. Napoleon thinks at first that would make Peril throw him out, but that isn’t the case. Peril stays away from him, doesn’t chase him or back him into a corner. Napoleon sleeps on the couch undisturbed and gets left alone. Sometimes Peril seems to forget for a moment and reaches out, but he always catches himself a second later and apologizes with a somewhat sad smile.

Peril still talks to him though. On some days more and on some days less, but Napoleon always gets a good morning and a good night. Peril really talks a lot to him, considering Napoleon can’t answer him or, as far as Peril knows, even understand.

As Napoleon concentrates on getting his strength back, he starts planning his escape. Unfortunately Peril doesn’t leave any window open after he leaves, much less the door. It makes disappearing a little harder, but not impossible. The first thing Napoleon is going to try is just slip out, when Peril comes back home and be gone before the Hunter notices his absence. If that doesn’t work, he’s going to have to claw his way out.

There are not that many cans left and Napoleon is not stupid enough to pass up free food when he knows he’s going back out to the streets in a few days. The number of cans marks how long he’s going to stay. Still, on another day alone at the apartment, Napoleon shortly wonders if Peril is going to miss him after he’s gone.

* * *

Napoleon lounges on the couch, which is kind of his couch by now. It’s well after dark, almost midnight he guesses, and Peril is still gone. Napoleon is more hungry than anything. He spent a good hour thinking about how he could open a can himself, but they are the kind that need openers which he can’t operate with his paws. And even if he could, it would be more suspicious than he can allow himself to be. There are only four cans left, so he’s going to leave the day after tomorrow. He’s not going to risk his neck over a tasteless dinner.

Just as he started thinking about how to break out of the apartment if Peril doesn’t come back at all, he hears heavy footsteps through the door. The moment the door is unlocked, the scent of blood nearly overwhelms him.

Napoleon tenses as his instincts scream at him to run, but stays put. The door swings open and reveals Peril, almost completely soaked in blood. His turtleneck is torn. Through the holes Napoleon can see four long slashes reaching from his left shoulder almost down to his right hip. Still even this wound can’t account for the amount of blood clinging to the man. There are blobs on his face, parts of his blond hair are dark with it and clotted. His pants aren’t torn, but still ruined by the stains, his hands are nearly completely red.

Peril just glances wearily at Napoleon, then looks away again. Like clockwork, he leaves his shoes and his bag in the doorway and disappears into the bathroom. There’s an unfamiliar clicking after he closed the door. Napoleon needs a second to process it as the door locking. The sound of the shower comes on immediately after.

Napoleon catches himself staring at the door long after it closed, his claws sunk into the couch. He shouldn’t react like that. This is what Hunters do and Peril is one after all. He knew that all along. Still, stays where he is, although the scent of blood lingers in the apartment, the duffle bag sitting in front of the door like an unspoken threat.

Peril takes twice as long as he usually does. When the shower finally turns off, the lock clicks again and Peril emerges with nothing but a towel around his hips.

He looks like he had a fight with a bear or wolf or a whole family of them. Other than the scratches on his torso there are countless other small wounds and reddened spots that will most likely turn purple by morning. His legs and back are just as scarred as his chest. His gaze wanders up to meet Peril’s eyes. There’s nothing but cold. For the first time since Napoleon got picked up from the streets, he’s honestly scared of Peril.

The Hunter disappears into the bedroom. He’s barely closed the door, when there’s a knock on the front door. There’s a quiet curse from the bedroom. The knocking continues, getting louder.

Peril storms out of the bedroom, now fully dressed again. He practically runs to the door, when his eyes fall on Napoleon. With another curse he turns to him. The Hunter grabs and picks him up too quickly for him to struggle. With quick steps he is carried over to the bedroom and gets practically thrown in, Peril shutting the door behind him instantly.                                                                              

Napoleon lands on his feet, turns around and glares at the shut door for a second. He won’t let himself be locked away to wait for whatever comes. Curiosity killed the cat, but he still has a few lives to spare.

He jumps up at the door and aims for the handle. The door swings open, but he catches it almost instantly. Through a small gap he peeks into the living room. Peril snaps his head in his direction and direct and exasperated glare at him, but he has already one hand at the front door. Setting his jaw, Peril turns back to the front door and opens it.

He steps back and holds it open for his guest, lowering his head slightly. There’s a man walking in, barely glancing at Peril. He’s wearing a hat, which throws a shadow on the top half of his face, but Napoleon recognizes him anyway. Oleg, head of the Hunter’s Guild.

Napoleon involuntary ducks a little. Sanders has worked against that man for decades, but he knows they make deals under the table. There’s a picture of him on the Circle’s blacklist, kill on sight and if you can’t, report the location and get back-up. Peril has to be pretty high up in the ranks to get a personal visit. And it doesn’t seem to be the first time.

Oleg walks around the apartment like he owns it, distaste clearly written on his face. Peril closes the door silently behind the man and waits, eyes lowered, facing away from Oleg.

After a tense silence, Oleg stops in the middle of his room.

“Kuryakin. Mission report.”

Kuryakin. Napoleon never heard the name before. He decides he likes Peril better.

Peril turns, his face is stony, his shoulders tense.

“All targets are eliminated, sir.”

Oleg hums. Slowly the man turns around to Peril.

“You left a few alive.”

Peril’s expression doesn’t change, but fingers twitch against his leg.

“I neutralized the threat. That was my objective.”

“There were pups.”

“They weren’t a threat.”

Oleg looks calmly at Peril and makes a few steps in his direction. Peril doesn’t even flinch as the man slaps him across the face. He doesn’t react at all other than his head turning a little from the force of the blow.

“That’s not for you to decide.”

Napoleon suppresses a hiss of sympathy. He has heard words like that often enough.

Oleg’s eyes drill into Peril’s, until Peril nods.

The man turns his back to Peril again, looking around the apartment. If he notices the small bowl of water in the corner of the kitchen where Peril left it for Napoleon, he doesn’t acknowledge it.

“They are all monsters. Don’t let yourself be fooled like your father.”

Peril stays where he is, but his fists clench involuntarily, as Oleg goes on.

“He’s a traitor, a disgrace for the Guild. You don’t want to end up like him. You don’t want this kind of shame.”

Silence is stretching out between them, Oleg waiting for acquiescence and Peril refusing to give it.

After a tense silence Oleg turns to leave. Peril, who still stands next to the front door, opens it for him.

Oleg stops shortly in the doorway, making Peril hold it for him. He turns his head slightly, so he is heard, but doesn’t look at Peril.

“I had someone else finish the job for you. Don’t let that happen again.”

Silently, Peril closes the door after the man. His fingers start tapping against his thigh as he stays standing there, facing the door. For a few moments he does nothing else, then he turns around, walks straight over to the table and flips it over one handed. Napoleon jumps at the noise of wood smashing.

Peril doesn’t stop.

He takes one of the chairs and throws it against the wall, the other he smashes against the floor until it breaks into pieces. Napoleon, relatively safe behind the door, can only watch as Peril turns to the couch next and rips it apart with his bare hands.

Rage and violence are pouring out of him is like a force of nature, making everything in his way fall into pieces. He imagines that it’s not furniture Peril tears apart. He imagines he fights a pack, maybe werewolves, cutting through their ranks effortlessly, getting himself drenched in blood.

In the middle of tearing the last cushion, he suddenly stops. He’s still breathing hard, his hands shaking. Slowly he blinks down at them, as if he needs to clear his sight. The cushion slips from his fingers. He bends over, his hands over his knees, still blinking, still trying to catch his breath. He stays like that for what feels like hours, his finger tapping against his leg again, staring at nothing.

Napoleon pushes a little against the bedroom door. The faint creak makes Peril jump. He straightens and looks at Napoleon with wide eyes, before taking in the destruction around him.

Peril takes a shaky breath. The poor attempt of a smile on his face makes Napoleon’s stomach drop as he turns back to him.

“I’m sorry for grabbing you. Oleg must not see you here.”

His hands still shake slightly as he quickly walks to the kitchen and pulls out a can, as if nothing happened. Napoleon carefully comes out of the bedroom. He steps around the remains of the chair, as Peril sets his plate down, instantly leaving the kitchen area to give Napoleon as much room as possible.

Napoleon doesn’t even pretend to be interested in his dinner, his appetite was gone the second Peril came home covered in blood. Instead he sits down next to his plate and watches the Hunter try to clean up the mess in the living room. Of the little furniture the room held, only one chair and the table is salvageable. The wreckage of the couch and the other chair Peril collects and puts in a corner. Napoleon looks around the now even more sparse room, noting the new dents in the wall where the chair connected. There are other marks in the wall, other places where the wallpapers are flawed and broken. He always thought of it as just another sign of the state of the apartment, but maybe they’re not. Something tells him this was not the first time Peril lost it.

Napoleon still hasn’t touched his food by the time Peril is finished cleaning up. The man watches him from across the room, a kind of weary look on his face. Peril takes a tentative step in Napoleon’s direction but stops. He opens his mouth once and closes it again. He blinks at the pile of trash that once was furniture. His shoulders fall slightly as he exhales. Peril looks utterly exhausted by the time he turns to the bedroom door.

“I didn’t mean to scare you, Cowboy. I’m sorry.”

Napoleon watches him, as he turns out the light in the living room and disappears into the bedroom. As usual he leaves a gap, but doesn’t turn on the light.

The darkness doesn’t bother Napoleon. What bothers him is the silence. It leaves him alone with all the pictures in his head. It would have been easier, if he believed Peril was just a cold-blooded murderer and not… What exactly was he? Napoleon doesn’t really understand. He for sure is a Hunter, and a very good one so it seems, but he is also compassionate and kind where he’s allowed to. Napoleon begins to think, that the man, who won’t throw a cat out of his own bed, is more the real Peril than the bloodied Hunter that came through the door tonight. Or rather the man Peril would have been if life hadn’t forced him in a different direction. He wonders what happened to Peril to make him become this way.

Napoleon crosses the room. The gap Peril left is wide enough for Napoleon to enter the bedroom without having to nudge it wider.

Peril is sitting upright in his bed, his back against the headboard, staring at nothing. The little light coming in from the streetlight catches in his eyes. His face is utterly blank, his hand is wrapped around his wrist over his watch.

Napoleon suddenly remembers a particular mission about a year ago, when he poisoned a school of witches just because the Circle wanted to make an example. After he came back he drank so much he nearly died of alcohol poisoning. He has no memory of anything he did that night, but he remembers feeling drained and helpless. And terribly alone.

His paws carry Napoleon silently over to the bed. The mattress dips barely noticeable as he jumps up. Peril turns his head towards Napoleon walking over to him until he sets one paw on Peril’s leg. He can feel the muscles tensing under his touch, but the Hunter doesn’t move. Napoleon hops up onto Peril’s lap and sits down. Peril is still for a moment, then he hesitantly brings his hands up. When he touches Napoleon, his fingers are just as careful as they were from the first day when he picked up Napoleon from the streets. They card through Napoleon’s fur, slow and caressing. Napoleon turns his head slightly to rub his cheek against Peril’s hand.

Peril freezes. Napoleon is almost sorry for the time he bit him and rubs against his hand again. Not knowing what else to do, he curls up where he is.

He hears Peril let out a long breath and feels him carefully arranging his arms around him, holding him a little closer. His voice is barely a whisper.

“Thank you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for injury, implied/referenced violence and death, blood, psychotic episodes. (Please let me know, if I forgot something. I'm a little unsure about how to handle the warnings in this fic.)


	4. Chapter 4

Their routine changes after that night. Napoleon sleeps in Peril’s bed again, often enough on top of him. The food is still terrible, since Peril brings more cans on his way home on the next day, extending Napoleon’s stay. But now Napoleon doesn’t mind much. Peril still plays chess in the evenings and Napoleon usually ruins at least one game walking over the board and pawing at the pieces. That is, until Peril stops him by picking him up and placing him on his lap. Napoleon’s will to defend his dignity ceases with the improvement of Peril’s chess-cat-coordination. It’s still odd to let a Hunter pet him, when Napoleon thinks about it, but he stops thinking every time Peril sinks his hands into his fur. The sensation is really one of the perks of this form.

Sometimes Napoleon asks himself why he’s still here. Free food and shelter and caressing aside, his days are rather dull. Of course it’s preferable than starving on the streets, but he’s still a _cat_ and that won’t change until he goes back to the Circle. He’s never been in one form this long in his life, or at least that he remembers. He knows about the dangers of being stuck in one form. Changing is like a muscle. He’s not sure how long it takes to lose a form due to disuse, but that’s not really his major concern. The longer he stays a cat, the more his animal instincts take over, consuming the human part of him. Napoleon’s not too far along, but he can feel the edges of his mind fraying.

He needs to make a decision and soon. Being a slave to his animal side or being a slave.

* * *

Napoleon wakes from two arms closing around him. He’s lying on something rather hard, but comfortably warm, most likely Peril’s chest. Gravity shifts as Peril sits up, still holding him in place.

“Time to get up, Cowboy.”

Napoleon shamelessly wiggles a little to get more comfortable and lets himself be carried out of the bedroom.

Another perk of being a cat. Laziness is cute.

Peril sets him down on a cushion he picked up somewhere on his way home and pulls out one of the cans. Napoleon stretches and considers standing up, when there’s a knock on the door.

Peril turns his head and halts his movements momentarily, then he resumes clearing the cat food onto the plate and sets it down. Napoleon neglects his breakfast to follow Peril as he heads to the door.

No one is there as Peril opens it, only a large envelope on the floor. Wordlessly Peril picks it up and closes the door again.

Peril doesn’t even look at his own breakfast as he sits down with the envelope at the table. Napoleon jumps into his lap and watches him rip the envelope open.

In it is a stack of cash and a dossier. Peril places the money in the middle of the table before he opens the dossier.

Napoleon’s Russian is fit for basic conversation, but he never mastered the alphabet. So when he peeks into the dossier, the only thing Napoleon can make sense of is the photograph on the front page.

It’s a woman, mid-twenties from the look of it, brown hair, big brown eyes. Pretty, if Napoleon dares say so.

Peril turns the page, so Napoleon is left with nothing more than Cyrillic letters again. After a few minutes of staring at the words Napoleon gives up and leaves Peril alone to ponder over it.

It worries Napoleon a little, that he’s getting used to the tasteless stuff someone sells as food, but he clears his plate anyway. He goes back to his cushion and starts grooming himself. Usually Peril is almost out the door by now. Napoleon takes his time, going over every spot at least twice until his fur is shiny and every hair is in place. When he’s finished, Peril still sits at the table, looking through the dossier. Napoleon wonders, if the woman is another target for Peril to kill. He hopes not, for both the woman’s and Peril’s sake.

Napoleon reclaims his spot on Peril’s lap again. It’s probably a reflex by now that Peril sinks his fingers in his fur as soon as Napoleon settles, which kind of ruins Napoleon’s work, but at least he knows what will keep him busy again later.

Peril is on the first page again. With the hand not currently stroking over Napoleon’s back, he takes out the photograph. He closes the dossier and puts the picture down on top of it. For a few minutes Peril just looks at it, his face expressionless. With something almost like a sigh, he curls his other arm around Napoleon.

“At least I can get you better food.”

* * *

Peril is tense for the next few days. He leaves every morning as he did before, but when he comes back he can’t seem to settle down. He paces around the living room, talking to himself or maybe talking to Napoleon, he can’t quite tell. When he sets up his chess board, he often neglects the game after a few minutes and pulls out the dossier again. The picture of the woman slowly gets worn out from all the times Peril toys with it.

After Peril wakes the third time one night, he gathers an equally sleepy and grumpy Napoleon in his arms as he sits up against the headboard. His fingers carding through Napoleon’s fur take care of the grumpiness soon enough. Napoleon is almost asleep again, when he hears Peril’s hushed voice against his fur.

“I don’t know what to do, Cowboy.”

* * *

Peril is late again. Robbed of the ruined couch, Napoleon dragged his cushion out of the kitchen and into the living room to sit on while he waits. He recalls the night when Peril stumbled in covered in blood, Oleg practically on his heels.

There’s only one chair and the table left in the living room, so Napoleon is a little worried about the bed, if the two pieces of furniture aren’t enough for Peril to take his anger out on. Oddly enough, he’s not worried for himself.

He dozes a little, up until he hears shouting coming from the staircase, or rather a female shouting and Peril’s deep growling responds. Napoleon raises his head as they ascend the stairs only to stop in front of the door. The thin wood doesn’t muffle their conversation much, though Napoleon still can’t make sense of it.

The door unlocks and in storms, surprisingly, the woman from the pictures and Peril right behind her. She’s at least a head shorter than Peril, wearing a blue overall, her hair tamed with a hairband and a messy ponytail. She’s also covered in grime and what smells like motor oil. Napoleon needs another minute to understand, that they’re speaking German.

“You can’t do this!”

“Do you want to die? No? Then do as I say.”

Napoleon takes a moment to be amused over Peril’s thick Russian accent before getting up.

The woman crosses her arms in front of her chest and takes a deep breath. Her gaze is murderous, but her voice is calm now. “I don’t have anything to do with the work of my father. And no, I don’t want to die, but I can’t see how following the orders of a _Hunter_ would help me with that.”

Peril glares right back down at her, throwing his duffle bag next to the door. “I don’t have time to explain, but when the Guild learns that I didn’t take the hit, they will come after you. So stop complaining.”

“ _They_ already did come after me, that’s why I’m here. So please slay me now, it’s going to save us both a lot of trouble.”

“No.”

“Then give me one good reason-“

“ _Meow!_ ”

Both the woman and Peril start and finally look down at Napoleon. He would like to explain that he’s growing tired of listening to them, but since he can’t he only gives them an annoyed glance. The woman looks down at him and frowns, before recognition lights up her face. She looks back up to Peril.

“He’s with you?”

Napoleon doesn’t know what she’s getting at. Peril looks like he doesn’t either. “Of course he’s with me.”

Now the woman frowns again and looks back at Napoleon. She hums quietly, before turning to Peril again. “Alright then, I’m coming with you.”

Peril is visibly surprised, but quickly schools his face back into his usual serious expression. “Fine. We’re leaving in five minutes.”

Napoleon has no clue what’s going on, so he just follows Peril as he turns and strides quickly into the bedroom. He pulls out a large suitcase and starts clearing out his dresser. It doesn’t even take long, because Peril owns literally nothing. Half of the suitcase is packed with weapons and money.

The woman waits for them in the living room. Peril bypasses her to grab a few cans out of the cupboards.

“Can you take the duffle bag?”

With a short nod she fetches it and throws it over her shoulder with an ease that Napoleon didn’t expect from someone her size.

Peril stuffs everything away, then closes the suitcase. Funnily the apartment doesn’t look any different, still run-down and empty. Napoleon doesn’t fuss as Peril grabs him and cradles him one-handed against his chest. The woman gives him a strange look.

“Why do you carry him?”

Napoleon doesn’t like her.

Peril narrows his eyes at her. “He’s my cat. Of course I carry him.”

She looks at them with an unreadable expression, then hums again.

As Peril carries him through the door, the woman following him close behind, Napoleon becomes aware of the fact that he hadn’t been out of this apartment for weeks. There’s a strange mix of anticipation and fear in his gut. He always loved his freedom, but the days he spent on the streets made him painfully aware of how helpless he is in this form. Speaking of which he’s going to be stuck in his cat form for the rest of his life, if he doesn’t go back to the Circle. A rather short life for certain, once he’s lost all of his human traits.

The night is not as cold as Napoleon remembers, now that spring finally took hold and he’s dry and warmed by the body heat of a Russian Hunter. He can’t say he missed the fresh air, because in this part of the city the air is never fresh.

Peril walks straight to a nondescript car parked next to the building. He sets down the suitcase and opens the door of the driver’s side.

“Let me drive.”

Peril turns his head to look at the woman, giving her a not so subtle once-over, judging if she wants to lead them into a trap.

The woman sighs. “I trust you not to kill me, so trusting me to drive shouldn’t be so hard.”

Still Peril hesitates another moment before making room for her. They stuff everything into the car, then they’re off. Peril eyes the woman warily from where he sits on the passenger seat. His fingers absently run through Napoleon’s fur, occasionally stroking over his ears. The silence is even for Napoleon uncomfortable. A shame he can’t break it anymore.

Napoleon busies himself with looking out of the window. So he just officially went from “thrown out” to “on the run”, even if it’s only by proxy. He can’t say he isn’t relieved that Peril turned his back on the Hunters Guild, considering the way it tore at him. It fires up Napoleon’s desire even more to leave his own organization behind just like Peril did, but he still doesn’t know if he can afford that.

An audible intake of air next to him makes him drop the thought.

“My name isn’t Schmidt.” She pauses shortly. “My name is Teller, Gabriella Teller, but I prefer Gaby.”

Peril nods once. Gaby sighs.

“Do you have a name or should I make one up?”

Napoleon turns a little to get a better look at her and Peril. He’s just in time to see something wondrous. Peril smirks a little. It’s totally different from the small smiles Napoleon gets from time to time. He looks almost _amused_. Huh, the man has something like _humor_ , who would have thought.

“Illya Kuryakin.”

Illya. Not a bad name. Napoleon will stick to calling him Peril anyway. It’s not like Napoleon can get rid of his own stupid nickname, so Peril gets to keep his as well.

Gaby nods, satisfied.

“So, Illya Kuryakin, where are we going?”

“West Germany. I can get us through.”

Gaby looks at him for a second and hums. They drive in silence after that. Peril constantly keeps an eye out for anyone who might be following them, Napoleon just stares out of the window, watching the lights of the city passing by. Berlin is not Napoleon’s home, he lost the feeling of being home anywhere when Sanders got his filthy hands on Napoleon’s ring. But still this feels like a goodbye.

Gaby drives fast, so they arrive at the border in no time. Peril deposits Napoleon in Gaby’s lap as they get halted by the guards. Napoleon has to admit that Gaby’s thighs are a little more comfortable than Peril’s and who would turn down sitting on a beautiful woman’s legs? Still he doesn’t like it as Peril grabs something out of the glove department and follows the guards over to the small house on the side of the check point. Through the window he hands something that looks like some kind of ID over to them. Napoleon can almost see the stack of cash sticking out of it. Even with Napoleon’s sharp ears he can’t really make out what they’re talking.

When Peril comes back, Gaby watches him calmly, but her hands are locked tightly around the steering wheel. He stuffs the ID back into the glove department. As he sits down again, Napoleon jumps over to his old spot in Peril’s lap.

Gaby takes a deep breath as the gates open in front of her. She doesn’t drive hurriedly, but a smile tugs at the corner of her mouth as they leave East Germany behind.

“What did you tell them?”

“That you’re my fiancée.”

Gaby stomps so hard on the brakes that Napoleon sinks his claws in Peril’s leg to keep from hitting the windshield.

“You did _what_?”

Peril winces as he carefully dislodges Napoleon’s claws from his flesh. He has the audacity to shrug. “Was a good cover.”

Both Gaby and Napoleon just stare at him. Peril just holds Napoleon up and frowns at his pants, where a drop of blood seeps through the fabric.

Gaby slowly starts the engine again with a disbelieving huff.

“Let me make this clear, I am never even going to pretend to be a Hunter’s fiancée.”

“That’s what your papers say.”

“I don’t have my papers with me.”

“I know, so you come with me.”

Gaby snorts. “So your papers say, I’m your fiancée?”

“They do since-“ Peril looks at his watch. “-seven minutes. As does your visa. So you’re my fiancée, unless you have a better solution for crossing borders.”

Gaby grumbles under her breath, from what Napoleon can catch, it’s nothing nice. Napoleon still looks at Peril with wonder. The best cover a highly trained Hunter can come up with is pretending to be a couple with his prey. If the situation wasn’t so unreal, Napoleon would laugh until he couldn’t breathe.

Gaby lets out another unamused snort. “As soon as I’m at a safe distance from your Hunter friends, I’ll go my way and you go yours and I will never see your face again.”

There’s a short silence, then Peril hums. “Turn right.”

Gaby pulls over without hesitation or slowing down. Their tires screech as they slide around the corner and Peril needs to pull Napoleon’s claws out of his upper thighs, again.

“That hurts, Cowboy.”

Napoleon is almost sorry.

Gaby glances at them. “Cowboy, huh?”

With an internal groan Napoleon finally has to face up to it that this is going to be his name in the foreseeable future.

Peril’s finger card through the fur between Napoleon’s ears, so he’s a little placated.

“Found him in a cowboy hat.”

“So you just took him in?”

Peril glances suspiciously at her. “Why wouldn’t I?”

Gaby hesitates for a second before shrugging. “Doesn’t seem very Hunter-like.”

Peril snorts. “What would you have me do? Snap his neck and throw him in a dumpster?”

“For example.”

Peril’s fingers twitch in Napoleon’s fur. He sucks in air as if to retort, but then just closes his mouth.

From then they drive in silence, interrupted only by occasional directions from Peril. Napoleon is familiar enough with the area to know where they are headed. Soon enough they reach a well-lit train station. It would appear that West Germany is really not far away enough for Peril.

Peril opens the door, supporting Napoleon only one-handed as he gets out his suitcase. This is probably the last chance for Napoleon to leave if he wants to get back to the Berlin base. He’s been away for about six weeks. He’s spent six weeks stuck as a cat. He doesn’t know how long he’s going to hold out without losing himself to this form. It’s frightening to think about it, but Napoleon can’t avoid it any longer.

Either he goes back to the Circle or he will turn into a real cat as time goes by. Both outcomes leave a foul taste in his mouth.

Gaby and Peril finished unloading their stuff quickly. They exchange a few quick words, to which Napoleon pays no attention. Instead he looks down at his own paws and tries to remember, what it feels like to have fingers instead. What it’s worth to him to look a man or woman in the eye and make them see an equal, something more than a pet.

He almost laughs at that thought, because isn’t just that what Sanders told him he was? Even in his other forms, he is nothing more than the Circle’s pet.

Peril’s hand suddenly stroking over his back surprises Napoleon to the point where he nearly jumps out of his hold. But it is just one of his gentle strokes, nothing more. His voice is even softer, as if he didn’t want Gaby to hear him.

“Don’t worry Cowboy, I won’t leave you alone here. You belong to me now. I’ll keep you safe.”

It’s odd, that Napoleon doesn’t even have the will to scratch him for that. If everything was how Napoleon would want it to be, he would belong to nobody but himself. The Circle took that away from him a long time ago. Still, he believes Peril when he says that he would keep Napoleon safe. Of course the Hunter doesn’t really know who Napoleon is, but chances are, he will never find out. Not until it’s too late anyway.

The Circle will never let him go. They will keep him and when he’s not useful anymore, they will put him down. So “freedom”, as much as Napoleon wants to hope, is not an option. Peril’s hand still sweeps down his back, slow and caressing.

Maybe belonging to Peril instead isn’t too bad.

Gaby appears seemingly out of nowhere with two train tickets in her hand. She hands one to Illya.

“Are you sure you don’t want to know where we’re going?”

Illya nods.

“They know my patterns. Better if I don’t have a say.”

Gaby looks at him with an unreadable expression, before she picks up the duffle bag again.

“Our train leaves in ten minutes, we should hurry.”

Illya grabs the suitcase again and follows her.

The train they are taking is already waiting for them. As they walk through the rows of seats, there are not many people. Gaby leads them to a cabin at the end of the wagon.

“I thought you would like your privacy, if you change your mind and try to kill me.”

Peril nods with the hint of a smile on his lips. “Thank you, very considerate.”

He sets Napoleon down on one of the seats while they stuff the luggage onto some shelves over their heads.

There are three seats next to each other on both sides of the cabin. Gaby instantly takes off her shoes and lies down on one side. Curiously she turns to Peril.

“Do you want to take turns sleeping? In case someone spots us?”

Peril shakes his head and sits down on the other side, the seat closest to the door. “Sleep. Tomorrow will be a long day.” 

Gaby watches them, as Napoleon climbs onto Peril’s lap and curls up in his usual spot. She raises one eyebrow at Napoleon. He would like to glare right back, but he is tired and Illya’s fingers already work their magic, so he lets it go for now. After a few moments she closes her eyes and turns her face to the other direction anyway.

“Good night, Illya Kuryakin. Cowboy.”

Napoleon curls in tighter. He should get really used to that stupid name. Staving off further doubts if he made the right decision, he wills himself to sleep. 

* * *

Only a few minutes must have passed, when Napoleon wakes from Peril shifting under him. There’s a quiet mumble of an apology, as Napoleon gets lowered on the cushion beside him. Blearily Napoleon blinks an eye open.

Peril silently stands up and walks over to where Gaby is lying. Napoleon’s night vision leaves no doubt that she’s still asleep. For a short moment he wonders if Peril really changed his mind and kills her now, but that would make no sense at all.

Instead he hovers over her. Napoleon now wonders, if Peril is a pervert and he just didn’t notice before, because cats aren’t his type. Then he sees it.

Gaby shivers. Her bulky overall hides most of it, but every now and then it gets more pronounced.

Peril looks a little closer, probably it’s not so easy for him to see like it is for Napoleon, before taking of his leather jacket. He’s just as gentle with her as he is with Napoleon, as he drapes it over her sleeping form.

Gaby mumbles something in her sleep, but instantly clutches at the jacket to pull it up to her nose. Curled up on her side she looks tiny under Peril’s jacket. It’s almost sweet.

After one tuck at the fabric, so it covers more of her, Peril returns to his post. Napoleon is glad that Peril picks him up, so he doesn’t have to move again to get back to his warm spot.

Just before he drops off again, Napoleon takes a look at Peril’s face. He looks at Gaby with a strange mix of worry and hope. Napoleon can guess what’s going on in Peril’s head. Worry, that he made the wrong call, hopeful, that in the end it will turn out right.

Napoleon can understand him all too well.


	5. Chapter 5

They stop mid-morning in Munich to get a few things, since Gaby didn’t bring anything and Peril owns practically nothing. Peril leaves them in a small bakery to have a quick breakfast. Napoleon stays with Gaby, since she’s new and therefore more fun. Not that it’s very hard to be more fun than Peril really.

Still, Napoleon is a cat and Gaby does nothing more than stare at him frowning with her head slightly tilted. He wishes that Gaby would get him some sausages or anything since Peril left their baggage in a locker at the station, forgetting about the cans until it was too late.

She has barely finished her coffee by the time Peril is back. Their next stop is a boutique, Peril’s choice. The ladies at the shop give them both curious and disapproving looks as they enter and Napoleon can’t really blame them. A little mechanic, a giant and a cat walk into a boutique. It sounds like the beginning of a bad joke. Still, the ladies stay friendly, even after Peril’s accent gives his Russian heritage away, especially as he asks them to make a little room for everything they need to buy. Or maybe it is just the prospect of money.

Gaby immediately starts going through the racks. She picks up dresses seemingly random, piling everything over her arm, and quickly disappears into the changing cubicles, leaving Peril to ponder over the racks

One of the ladies manages to find a small basket for Napoleon, which he pointedly ignores, until Illya sits him in it. Napoleon has the decency to wait until Peril turns his back before taking off again. He slips through the soft hands of one of the shop assistants as she tries to bring him back and wanders around the store. There is a really nice dark blue costume, at least from what Napoleon can see from his cat height. Slipping through the various racks he goes to look for Peril to drag him over there. He finds him with a belt and a dress in his hands, Dior, not the worst choice. Peril frowns at the belt before putting it away and grabs another one, this time a Rabanne. To Napoleon’s horror he holds it against the Dior, nods to himself and turns to put it on the rack the shop-assistants cleared for them. He can’t be serious. What do they teach their children in Russia? 

Lightning quick, Napoleon storms towards Peril and sinks his teeth in his ankle before he manages to hang the dress-belt horror drama up. He doesn’t break skin, but his teeth are sharp enough to make Peril wince and turn around.

He frowns down at Napoleon.

“What was that for?”

For trying to put a _Rabanne_ on a _Dior_. It’s never been more frustrating that nothing but an angry meow can come out of Napoleon’s mouth. He spares a glances at the other outfits on the rack and contemplates fleeing the store. If he knew that Peril has literally no taste in apparently anything, he would have stayed in Berlin.

Luckily Gaby chooses this moment to step out of the changing room, so Napoleon doesn’t actually have to bodily fight Peril over taste.

She looks both tired and impatient with her hands on her waist.

“I have everything I need. Can we go now?”

Both Peril and Napoleon stop dead in their tracks to look at her. She wears an orange and white dress with a kind of sweet hat. She looks radiant in it. Napoleon doesn’t know how she’s already this tanned, but it suits her perfectly.

Peril slowly walks over to her. She rolls her eyes as he slowly turns her around once.

“Not bad-“

For sure better than everything Peril picked for her.

“-but it needs one more thing.”

Slowly he reaches down and takes Gaby’s hand. Napoleon isn’t quite sure why Gaby doesn’t pull back as Peril slips a ring on her finger. The way she stares at it might suggest she’s either too shocked to do anything or just looking for which angle it causes the most damage if she punches Peril in the face with it. With a tight-lipped, but almost too satisfied smile Peril holds her hand just a second longer than necessary.

“Now we’re engaged. Congratulations.”

Well, this whole cat business was worth it to witness this moment, Napoleon thinks, as Gaby gives Peril a sour smile and turns to leave the store without another word.

While Peril calmly waits for the ladies to pack up Gaby’s new clothes, Napoleon lets his gaze wander critically up and down his frame. Peril could use some new clothes as well, but now is probably not the time.

Gaby waits outside the store, arms crossed, annoyance painted on her face. She immediately walks three steps ahead of them leaving Illya to carry all of her bags without even glancing back. 

They head back to the station after getting a few other things and fetch the rest of their luggage to board another train. They settle into cabin again and it’s just like the evening before, only that Gaby catches a lot more eyes on their way back. Napoleon in turn catches Peril not-so-subtly glare at the men staring at her.

This just gets more interesting.

* * *

They’ve been on the train for what feels like ages and crossed two borders, before they finally reach their destination. Napoleon guesses that they are in Italy, but that doesn’t mean he’s not pleasantly surprised when he recognizes the main station of Rome. He tries not to be too disappointed that he can’t enjoy the city like he used to.

Gaby grabs one of the lighter bags and, to Napoleon’s surprise, him, leaving the rest to Peril. Gaby conjures up from somewhere a large pair of white-rimmed sunglasses and puts them on as they step outside. She wears a big white hat and one of the new dresses, the green one with cut-out diamond panels behind that shows off her tanned back. Napoleon has to admit he understands why the men are breaking their necks to catch a glimpse of her.

Peril really doesn’t look happy as he trails behind her through the crowds outside of the station. Napoleon isn’t sure it’s because of the dress or their location, but he soon stops paying attention to him. While Gaby’s arm offers not as much space as Peril’s does, she’s way softer and therefore just as comfortable.

Without even looking for alternatives she heads to the Grand Plaza Hotel.

Napoleon decides, he likes her from now on.

Peril follows her silently, as she takes off her glasses and she walks to the receptionist across the vast lobby. She barely waits for Peril to catch up before she smiles at the woman in front of her.

“A wonderful day, isn’t it?” Napoleon is a little surprised at how good her English is.

The receptionist smiles back at her, a little wider than she would have to just to be polite. “Yes, indeed. Welcome to the Grand Plaza Hotel, what can I do for you?”

Gaby’s smile has an almost too sweet edge to it. “My _fiancé_ surprised me with a vacation and of course like most men he didn’t think ahead, did you _darling_?”

Napoleon watches with amusement as Peril clenches his jaw slightly, but nods with a forced smile. Napoleon _really_ likes her.

“So we’re in need of a suite.”

If the receptionist is as amused as Napoleon is, she hides it well.

“We’re almost booked out, so it might get a little difficult without a reservation. Let me see what I can do for you.” She takes out a black book with the hotel’s name printed in gold on it and turns a few pages. Napoleon already mentally said goodbye to the luxurious suites when the receptionist looks up to them again.

“Just this morning the reservation of the honeymoon suite was canceled unexpectedly. How long do you plan to stay?”

Gaby smiles. “Just a few—“

“One week at least.”

Gaby look back to Peril with her smile slightly strained. “But _darling_ , we can’t stay this long. We both have work to go back to.” This time, the endearment is more of a sharp remark than teasing.

Peril’s English is just as heavily accented as his German is, as he answers. “Work can wait. One week, not a day less.” He smiles that tight-lipped smile at Gaby again. “I only want my _fiancée_ to be well rested before the wedding.”

Gaby narrows her eyes at him for a moment, before she turns back to the receptionist. “Fine, a week then.”

The woman behind the counter nods with a slightly amused smile. “Of course.”

“Will the cat be a problem?”

“Of course not, we will send up any items that you might need.”

The formalities take another few minutes, then they get their keys. The receptionist smiles at them as she hands them over. “Enjoy your stay, Mr. and soon to be Mrs. Kuryakin.”

Peril smiles back at her, looking almost pleased with himself. “Thank you.” Gaby’s smile is visibly less enthusiastic, as she takes her set of keys and marches to the elevators, not waiting for Peril.

With a few quick, long steps Peril catches up to her. They stay silent during their ride up.  The suite is easy to find for there’s a small heart dangling from the door handle.

As soon as the door falls shut, Gaby lets everything fall to the floor, including Napoleon, and turns to Illya.

“One week? I already told you that I want to leave as soon as possible.”

“One week is as soon as possible.”

Peril calmly sets down the luggage and crouches to reach for Napoleon, obviously more concerned for the way Gaby dropped him. It’s a reminder again that Peril has definitely no experience with owning a cat. Napoleon rubs his head against Peril’s outstretched hand to placate him as he walks past him to inspect the suite.

The living room is wide and airy, the furniture soft-looking and elegant. A balcony is visible through the glass doors overlooking a broad romantic view over Rome. Napoleon hops on one of the sofas and yes, it’s just as comfortable as it looks like. He curls in on his side and listens to Gaby and Peril resume arguing.

“I left everything I know back in Berlin just as you wanted. So why exactly shouldn’t I go my own way?”

“Is not safe. I need one week to make sure that we were not followed.”

Gaby huffs, stepping out of her shoes. “Fine, one week, not a day more.” She takes a look around the room with her hands on her hips, before turning to Peril again with an ironic smile on her lips. “May I drop the glamour now or is it _not safe_ as well?”

Peril frowns. “Tinkers don’t have glamour.”

It is Napoleon’s turn to roll his eyes at Peril. If the file said that Gaby was a _tinker_ , the Hunters Guild is even dumber than he previously thought. Have they never seen a tinker, even on a picture? While tinkers are fey they have more in common with gnomes than with elves. Gaby may be short, but that’s about all of her that resembles a tinker.

Gaby raises an eyebrow. “You’re right, tinkers don’t.”

With that she inhales deeply, spreading her arms to the side with the grace of a dancer.  From the tips of her fingers coppery swirls start to appear on her skin in graceful arcs, while translucent wings appear on her back. If she was pretty before, she’s beautiful now. Napoleon catches himself staring at her, but he is placated by the fact that Peril’s eyes are just shy of popping out of their sockets. Gaby’s smile didn’t lose anything of its fierceness even though the markings bleed into the corner of her eyes and play around the angles of her face. Her dark brown hair is now streaked with golden and red high lights, the tips of her pointed ears peeking through.

“My father is a tinker, that is true, but my mother was an elf of the Summer King’s court.”

Peril still just looks at her in barely concealed awe for a few seconds. Napoleon begins to think that for all the hunting he did, Peril really doesn’t know much of the magical world.

Gaby raises her eyebrows at him, which makes him spring into action. His cheeks are slightly reddened as he turns to the door. “I’m going to scout out the area.”

Not even fooled for a second, Gaby grins at Peril’s fleeing form. “Of course.”

Peril glances over his shoulder as he checks his pockets. “Feed Cowboy.”

Yes, feed Cowboy. A really good idea Peril.

Illya doesn’t wait for Gaby to answer before he closes the door behind him.

Gaby sighs and turns around to face Napoleon. In anticipation of getting one of the admittedly not-that-awful new cans that Peril bought, Napoleon uncurls and stretches on the couch. He’s more careful with his claws now not to ruin the soft fabric. Leaving his black hairs all over the cushions is bad enough. He’s almost hopped off the couch when he notices Gaby staring at him. Curiously he stays where he is and looks back. Now that she stays still, Napoleon can make out tiny golden flecks in her eyes as well. He only met members of the Summer King’s court once or twice in his life and they were just as stunning to look at, but they lacked the silent strength Gaby radiates. The kind of strength that unnerves Napoleon right now. Why does she look at him like that? Is there something on his face or-

“Napoleon Solo I presume? We need to talk.”

And just like that, Napoleon’s heart stops.


	6. Chapter 6

Napoleon forces himself to stay calm. He starts to groom himself, just to look busy. 

Gaby crosses her arms in front of her chest. “Don’t even try to pretend with me. Since I’m only a half elven, my communication skills with animals are limited, but _you_ certainly don’t feel like a cat. And there are only so many feline shapeshifters on the run with a brown fleck in their eyes.”

Napoleon drops the act and sits up straighter, a million questions running through his head.

Gaby frowns a little. “If you don’t concentrate, I can’t understand you. Not that I care much. At first I thought Superhunter just acts like he doesn’t know, but he really has no idea who you are. So what are you doing here? If you spy on him for the Circle, I am not getting caught in the crossfire.”

Napoleon practically screams _no._ Gaby flinches. “Okay, my communication is limited, but I’m not deaf. What else are you doing, besides playing housecat?”

Well, isn’t that the question. Napoleon tries formulating his thoughts slowly into full sentences. He met a telepath in hiding a few years ago in Oxford, fey-communication shouldn’t work too different. Napoleon only had a few days practice though, and he’s more than rusty, so he tries to keep it short and simple. 

_Circle threw me out._

Gaby raises her eyebrows. “For someone thrown out, they seem to want you back pretty desperately. There’s a bounty on your head. Alive, but not necessarily unharmed.”

 This is new. Sanders probably didn’t think that Napoleon would last that long. In his defense, Napoleon didn’t think so either.

Gaby hums. “But maybe the bounty is just a bluff, giving you a cover to infiltrate the Guild. But in the end, you didn’t need that, did you? You just never told Kuryakin.”

_Peril saved me._

Now that Napoleon formed the thought, he knows it’s true. Peril saved him, both from the streets and being the Circle’s property.

“Peril?”

_Didn’t know his name. I’m Cowboy, he’s Peril. Only fair._

That actually brings a sudden laugh to Gaby’s eyes, but it’s just as quickly replaced by sharpness again. “Still doesn’t explain, why you stay or even go with him. Give me one good reason to believe you, or I’ll tell him you’re a shifter and with the Circle.”

For all the time Napoleon spent with Peril, he doubts that the Hunter would spare him if he knew. Still what Napoleon is going to tell Gaby will be even harder to believe than the simple admission that he’s no longer with the Circle.

_Spellbound collar, Peril opened it. Antimagus._

Gaby just stares at him. “You’re saying that he’s an Antimagus.”

Napoleon nods, which feels like an odd thing to do as a cat.

“I was stuck in East Berlin passing as a baseline human for the last few years, but I’m not stupid. There is no such thing as an Antimagus. No one is fully immune to magic.”

_Peril is._

Gaby snorts. “I’m not throwing my freedom away and let you get word about me to the Circle, because you claim your so-called Peril to be something impossible.”

Napoleon understands her doubts all too well.

_Test him. I lie, you tell him about me._

She stares at him a moment longer, before turning away from him. “Alright.”

Curiously Napoleon watches her as she walks over to the small bar assembled on a commode at the other side of the room. She takes one of the glasses and drops it on the floor. The glass cracks audibly as it shatters in a handful large pieces.

The lack of surprise in her eyes tells Napoleon that this was not an accident. Mindful of the shards she crouches down and picks one up. Slowly the other shards start to move, circling towards her. Napoleon has seen tinkers at work before, but he never gets tired of watching. Slowly the shattered glass reassembles itself in Gaby’s hand until there’s not a single crack to be seen. She puts it back on the tray and pours herself a drink. The smell of gin wafts over from her as she pours the liquor. The glass doesn’t lose one drop.

Without warning the door opens and Peril comes in, now looking a little more composed. It’s been barely ten minutes. Either Peril is really fast or he’s even more obvious than Napoleon previously thought.

Napoleon keeps his eyes on Gaby. He refuses to plead to her, but that doesn’t keep him from hoping. Gaby glances back at him for a second with a calculating stare. He holds his breath momentarily, but then she turns around to the Hunter with a smirk.

“I guess the air is clear?”

Peril nods, takes a look around the room and goes to fetch a can for Napoleon. He empties it onto a plate that he somehow got his hands on, maybe stole it from the kitchen, when Gaby puts on her hat and sunglasses.

Immediately Peril frowns at her. “Where are you going?”

Napoleon swears he can see the eye roll through her shades.

“On the balcony, if you don’t mind.”

Peril looks at her for a second, his eyes sweeping down her form. “Put your glamour back on.”

Gaby sighs in annoyance, but complies.

She’s already stepped out on the balcony, when she calls back.

“I forgot my drink, would you hand it to me?”

Illya looks from her to the single filled glass in front of the liquor bottles.

“It is too early.”

Gaby smirks lightly. “If I can’t go out, I have to pass the time somehow.”

Peril doesn’t argue further and walks over to it. Both Gaby and Napoleon watch him as he extends his hand towards it. The second he touches the glass, it breaks. Peril’s hand draws back in surprise, but it’s not fast enough to avoid the liquor altogether. There are spots on his turtleneck, the hem of his sleeve soaked in gin.

Gaby stepped back into the room, quickly walking over to him.

“Are you alright?”

Illya nods as he frowns at the broken glass before him.

“I am fine. Watch out for shards on the floor.”

Gaby nods absently, her eyes taking in the mess of gin and glass in front of her.

“Go change, I’ll clean this up.”

Illya still frowns as he steps away from the commode.

Peril starts to rummage through his suitcase and pulls out the new toiletries they picked up in Munich and one of his turtlenecks. Before disappearing into the bathroom he sends Gaby a look, which is clearly meant to convey _Stay where you are_. Gaby meets his gaze visibly unimpressed as she starts collecting shards.

As soon as Illya shuts the door, she makes the glass assemble again, but throws it out regardless. After wiping up the liquor with one of the laid out towels, she settles on the couch next to Napoleon.

“I still don’t believe you.”

Napoleon sits up, to get at least a little closer to her eye level. Now that he’s recovered from the initial shock, the conversation is starting to feel easier.

_But you won’t say anything to him._

Gaby huffs. “At least for now.” She glances at the bathroom door as the sound of the shower starts.

“There is still no such thing as an Antimagus, but he’s not baseline. How did he even get into the Guild?”

At least Napoleon isn’t alone with that question anymore.

Peril disrupting even basic tinker magic is interesting. Napoleon is more curious about how Peril’s talent works than he would like to admit. Illya for sure didn’t break Sanders’ Command on him nor see through Gaby’s glamour, so how does it work?

As usual, the rush of water stops quickly. 

Peril emerges from the bathroom with his hair still damp and sticking up in funny angles. It renders his scowl ineffective, although Napoleon isn’t sure if Gaby wasn’t immune to it from the start. She wanders back out on the balcony as Peril starts pondering over a map of Rome, taking notes in Cyrillic on the side. Napoleon spends a few hours examining the suite, making Peril get up and open the doors for him instead of opening them himself just because he’s bored. He has to say, he’s quite satisfied with how their accommodations. After the tour, he curls back up on the couch and enjoys the warmth of the afternoon sun. He doses until the sun starts to go down. He just sat up and finished stretching, when Gaby comes in from the balcony and sits down next to Napoleon.

“So, what are we going to do tonight?”

Illya blinks up from his papers scattered over the table. “Nothing. Stay here.”

Gaby smiles sweetly at him. “Of course darling. Would you be so kind to call the roomservice then? I’m in the mood for champagne to celebrate our little trip.”

“No.”

And Peril is back to his usual mood killing self. This just won’t do. Napoleon paws at the fabric of Gaby’s dress softly to get her attention.

_It’s suspicious, if you don’t celebrate._

Gaby blinks down at Napoleon, before turning back to Peril again.

“Wouldn’t it be suspicious, if we didn’t order something up? Taking your fiancée to Rome and not leaving the hotel room the first day is alright, but not celebrating?”

Peril is still for a few moments, before swiftly turning around. “Fine.”

The phone is in their bedroom. Peril isn’t really careful with the door, as he shuts it noisily behind him.

Gaby smirks down at Napoleon.

“Don’t think fawning will help your case.”

_That was totally in my own interest._

She raises her eyebrows in jest.  “That is?”

_Since I’m stuck being a cat, I might as well be entertaining myself._

Gaby stifles her chuckles, as Illya returns from the bedroom, a suspicious frown on his face. Still he doesn’t ask what amuses her, but his gaze settles on Napoleon.

“Come on, Cowboy, time for dinner.”

Napoleon doesn’t move. He won’t be eating catfood, if he has the chance to steal something from their dinner. He’s not stupid.

Peril glances back at him as opens one of the cans onto a plate and sets it down. The frown now settles on Napoleon again, as he just blandly stares back.

It doesn’t really count as a staring match, since it’s between a man and a cat, but if it did, Napoleon is certain he would have won.

With a silent scoff Peril turns away from him, heading for the bedroom. He comes back shortly with his chessboard in his hands.

Gaby raises her eyebrows, as he sets it up on the small living room table and settles into the armchair.

_Don’t worry, he won’t make you play._

She glances down at Napoleon, just before Illya takes a rook and makes the first move. Napoleon just starts to groom himself lazily.

_I don’t know why he does it either._

When he’s satisfied with the state of his fur, he takes a few steps over the cushions on the couch and jumps from the armrest on the table, knocking a few pieces over as he crosses it. He hears Gaby chuckle behind him, as he jumps off again and walks over to the food Peril set down for him. He takes a whiff and decides he will definitely wait for the dinner brought up.

Surprisingly he doesn’t have to wait for too long.

Peril hadn’t taken a pawn off either side when the room service knocks on their door. As Peril quickly abandons his game to open the door, Napoleon winding through his legs almost makes him stumble.

Room service delivers a wagon bearing a covered tray with a bottle of champagne in a cooler. Napoleon jumps on the wagon, only to be caught by Peril and set down on the floor again.

“This is not your dinner Cowboy.”

Napoleon looks up to him challenging. They will see about that.

He waits for Peril to return to the armchair and resume his chess game before trying again. As Gaby approaches, Napoleon jumps back up on the small wagon, not minding Peril’s huff behind him. Gaby opens the champagne first and fills two glasses.

“What did you order?”

Illya shrugs, as he moves one of the knights.

“Something of everything.”

Gaby hums and sets down a glass next to Peril’s hands. He glances up to her shortly. “Thank you, but I don’t drink.”

With a shrug Gaby takes the glass back and drinks it in one go. Napoleon winces at the blatant disregard for fine alcohol.

As the cover gets lifted off the tray, a mix of delicious smells fills the air. Napoleon doesn’t regret ditching his evening can.

Looks like the kitchen took Peril’s words quite literally. There is a small portion of various fish and meat dishes, antipasti, vegetables and a piece of tiramisu for dessert. Napoleon glances up to Gaby.

_I’m going to steal either the salmon or the ham, any preferences yourself?_

Gaby trails her finger over Napoleon’s back in acknowledgement, before turning back to Peril.

“Anything you like in particular, Illya?”

Peril barely glances at her. “No, I’m not hungry.”

Gaby winks down at Napoleon then. “More for us then.”

She takes one of the two empty plates and dumps both the ham and the salmon on it, continuing to take a bit of everything until her plate is more than full. With her free hand she gathers Napoleon and walks back to the couch.

Napoleon can feel Peril’s eyes on them, although he doesn’t move his head as they sit down.

Gaby takes her knife and cuts the salmon in small stripes. Napoleon thinks this is his cue to just snatch it and run off, when Gaby just picks one up and holds it out to Napoleon.

Napoleon hesitates. For all the coddling he enjoys in Peril’s care, hand feeding feels like a whole new level. Even considering all the ways he in fact _is_ Peril’s pet, this cuts a bit too close to home, especially since Gaby knows what he is.

Gaby seems to sense it as well, her fingers twitching once. Napoleon looks up at her, takes in the swirls on her skin, the mix of colors in her iris and hair, the understanding in her eyes. He reminds himself, that it could be a lot worse, that he already had it worse.

Carefully minding his teeth, he takes the bit out of her hand. Nothing else happens, no condescending laugh, no kick or shove for overstepping, only a quick smile from Gaby before she goes to pick something for herself. It’s surprisingly easy, just as taking the next bite out of her hands.

Peril glances over to them, frowning a little every time Gaby feeds Napoleon bits and pieces from her plate. She even starts to chat with him openly, how he likes what and which bits he would like next, Peril unaware that Napoleon is actually answering her.

From the short time they have known each other, Gaby is unbelievably talented at pushing Peril’s buttons.

It’s not long before Peril gets up.

Napoleon is just as surprised as Gaby, when Peril practically snatches him away from her.

“You spoil him. Is your fault, if he will not eat his food anymore.”

Napoleon scoffs internally. Damn right he won’t, not as long as Gaby is on his side.

Gaby smirks and picks up some caviar which she promised Napoleon just seconds before and eats it herself. Rather cruel.

“I think you managed to spoil him on your own just fine.”

Peril shoots her a small glare as he settles down in front of his chess set with Napoleon in his lap.

“I do not spoil him, I care for him. He’s my cat.”

Gaby carelessly raises her glass of champagne to her lips and takes a sip. “As in yours only?”

Illya doesn’t answer her, but Napoleon can feel his fingers tighten shortly in his fur.

He doesn’t know if he should find it alarming or endearing that Peril doesn’t particularly like to share him. Maybe a little of both.

A light chuckle from Gaby.

“Don’t worry, you’re still his favorite.”

Napoleon’s ears twitch at that.

_Define favorite._

With a long-suffering sigh she gets up, grabs some of her stuff and disappears in the bathroom, ignoring Napoleon completely.

Peril lets out a breath of relief, when Gaby closes the door behind her and leans back. Napoleon almost feels sorry for him, they really don’t make this easy for Peril, but it will do him good to be kept a little on his toes. He rubs his cheek against him and drapes his tail over his arm. The small smile he gets in return is familiar at this point and Napoleon starts to purr in contentment before he gets a grip on himself.

Having someone around who knows he’s not really a cat starts to make him a little more aware of how far he’s slipped. Maybe Gaby is actually right and Napoleon is already spoiled beyond salvation.  He’s been the center of Peril’s attention for weeks now. Again, maybe that should worry him, but to what end? It’s not like he plans to leave Peril’s side and he shortly wonders when the thought of accompanying a Hunter ceased to be alarming. 

Peril starts tidying up the chess set, his other hand still buried in Napoleon’s fur, when the door of the bathroom door opens again.

The pajama Gaby is wearing looks not very dashing, but comfortable, something to wear around home. She yawns as she leans in the doorway to the bedroom.

“Do you prefer one side of the bed?”

The question makes Illya’s fingers pause in Napoleon’s fur. It seems like Peril was too busy to really think about the sleeping arrangements until now.

He shakes his head after a moment.

“I take the couch.”

Napoleon eyes the couch skeptically, as does Gaby. It’s comfortable, no doubt, but not quite the size Peril could lie down on.

“You know that this is ridiculous. Do you remember, that you’re the one who decided we should pretend to be engaged?”

Illya looks up from his chess board.

“I don’t think there is anyone to pretend for in this suite.”

Good point, but not necessarily the end of this discussion.

_Challenge him._

The corner of Gaby’s mouth twitches as she glances at Napoleon.

“Don’t you think it’s safer to sleep in one room? I mean if we have to be as careful as you insist on being, you shouldn’t sleep where a possible intruder can shoot you right after breaking through the door. You would be closer to your weapons as well.”

_Perfect execution, thank you Ms. Teller._

Peril opens his mouth once, closes it. His hands tighten on Napoleon.

“No, is not decent.”

She raises her eyebrows at him, amusement playing around her lips.

“You do understand that I spent half of my life in the Summer Court. If you think sleeping next to me is not decent, I’d love to bring you to dance into May.”

The faint blush rising on Illya’s cheeks is too adorable. Really, Napoleon doesn’t know how he ever managed without her.

He can almost hear Peril gritting his teeth through it.

“I take the left.”

Gaby smirks a little and vanishes into the bedroom.

Peril deflates a little, his eyes fall down on Napoleon. After a few more caresses, he sets him down to the couch next to him. Napoleon watches him grab some of his stuff and close the door of the bathroom behind him.

Napoleon uses the opportunity to sneak back to the now unsupervised tray Gaby left so kindly uncovered. He takes his time with picking only the best bits, since his cat stomach has very limited capacities. With very little qualms he rips pieces apart or bites something off and drops the rest back on the plate. His animal part relishes in the mess he creates and Napoleon can’t help but find a raw pleasure in tearing the neatly arranged dishes apart.

He notices the cover slipping too late. Noisily it falls to the ground, making Napoleon wince.

He can hear a quiet Russian curse as the door swings open only a second later. Peril charges out of the bathroom, his razor in his hand, ready to counter any attack. He’s in his pajama bottoms, which unsurprisingly doesn’t make him any less intimidating. Napoleon meows softly to get his attention.

The tension in Peril’s shoulders ceases, as he sees Napoleon still standing with all four paws in what used to be dinner.

“Oh Cowboy, what have you done?”

Napoleon doesn’t cringe under Peril’s gaze, but as he looks down on the plate, he’s a little surprised at the amount of the mess he’s made. He usually prides himself to have manners, even as a cat.

He’s still wondering how he let it go so far, when he hears Peril’s silent steps moving towards him. With one hand he lifts Napoleon off the plate, with the other hand he picks up the cover and sets it back down over the plate.

Napoleon is reminded of the day Peril took him in, as Peril takes him to the bathroom and turns on the water in the sink. Like the first time, he tests the temperature, before lowering Napoleon down, luckily this time not all the way.

Peril starts with Napoleon’s right paw at the front and holds it under the stream, cleaning out the bits of food. Napoleon doesn’t struggle. His paws are cleaned rather thoroughly, one after another, until the socks shine white again.

After the last paw is clean enough for Peril’s satisfaction, he sets him down on the dresser next to the sink where a towel is spread out for him. With the same gentle thoroughness Peril rubs his paws dry. When he’s done, his hand strokes once over his back, before he steps back. Napoleon stays where he is and looks up curiously.

He didn’t expect to see Peril just standing there, with his shirt off, staring blankly at his reflection in the mirror. The tall Hunter has a nice muscle tone and the blond hair dusting his chest and trailing down to his navel looks softer than it has any right to. Peril is probably the nicest pillow Napoleon’s ever had. The deep scratches from the night Oleg came to visit have healed nicely, their dark pink will most likely fade with the time. Napoleon’s thoughts halt abruptly as Illya sighs and picks up one of his undershirts. After he shrugged into it he turns back to the mirror. His hand lifts to the collar, then a bit higher, barely brushing over the thick scar on his throat and suddenly Napoleon understands.

He’s seen the scars littering Peril’s skin. In fact he’s seen so many physical reminders of the fight between the Guild and the Circle that Peril just barely makes it in his top ten of people marked up. Gaby might have not.

In the stark light of the bathroom Peril’s scars look different than the outlines Napoleon sees in the dark. It’s not that they look worse, but they are definitely more prominent. With his refusal to wear anything but turtlenecks, even in Rome mid-May, Napoleon should have known that he would be self-conscious about them. He shouldn’t have pushed Peril to share the room with Gaby. He has almost forgotten what a bad conscience feels like.

He watches, as Illya shakes his head, shrugs out of the undershirt and puts on his turtleneck again. It looks a bit odd in combination with his pajama pants.

Without another glance in the mirror he turns to Napoleon and picks him up. He holds him a little higher and tighter against his chest than usual as he leaves the bathroom.

Peril stills in the doorway of the bedroom, Napoleon still held in front of him like a shield, and stares at Gaby, daring her to comment.

Gaby is already in bed, sitting up against the headboard. Her gaze lands on Peril’s chest, travels up to his neck and finally to his face, frowning slightly.

_Please don’t say anything about the turtleneck._

Gaby swallows once and lies down properly.

“Could you get the lights?”

_Thank you._

Napoleon can feel the hands around him relax a bit as Peril nods. He gets set down on the foot of the bed before Peril returns to the light switch. The bed is larger and a lot more comfortable than Peril’s old one.

Napoleon waits for Peril to lie down before he hops on Peril’s chest and settles on his usual spot. With his night vision he can see Gaby raising her eyebrows at him. Napoleon makes a show of stretching and curling up again.

_He’s quite comfortable. You should try it sometime._

Gaby snorts.

Illya turns his head to her with a small frown.

“What?”                                                                         

Gaby turns her back to them. “Nothing. Good night.”

Peril stares at her back for a moment, before his arms close around Napoleon as usual. “Good night.”

He leans up a bit and almost buries his face in Napoleon’s fur. His breath is warm.

“Good night, Cowboy.”

Napoleon paws at his hand in response and proceeds to drift off.


	7. Chapter 7

The morning in Rome is not too different than the ones in East Berlin. He gets woken up by Peril getting up and then he gets carried out. Gaby is still sleeping by the time Illya has showered, dressed and made Napoleon’s breakfast. A bellboy comes up and replaces the wagon from last night with a breakfast tray. Although the temptation is there, Napoleon decides he can delay being difficult and starts nibbling at his cat food. Napoleon is still occupied with his can when Illya heads for the door.

“Behave yourself while I’m gone, Cowboy.”

Napoleon tilts his head slightly as he watches Peril go.

The door falling shut finally wakes Gaby, who appears still in her pajamas in the living room just a few minutes after.

Squinting against the bright light, her eyes fall on Napoleon, who had migrated to his newly claimed spot on the couch in the morning sun.

“Good morning, Cowboy.”

_I prefer Solo by the way._

She glances at him before wandering over to the tray Illya left almost untouched. “I know.”

His tail twitches once in annoyance as she pours herself a mug of coffee.

“Where’s our Russian friend?”

_Out._

“I guess you are no morning person either.”

_That and it’s not like he gives his cat a detailed description of what he’s about to do._

With a sigh she lets herself sink into the armchair next to him.

“You’re right I guess.”

She takes a sip of coffee and her eyes flutter shut in bliss. Only then Napoleon realizes that her glamour is on again. He guesses it’s habitual, if she passed as human so long. He did the same in mixed company.

Half summer elf and half tinker, really an odd combination. For all the debauchery the Summer Court is known for, they usually keep to themselves. Some elves of the other courts might get invited, but never a tinker.

_How did you end up alone in East Berlin?_

She looks at him over the rim of her mug.

“And you need to know that because?”

Napoleon’s ears flick back. She’s right to call him out on it, it’s really not his business. It’s not like she is here of her own volition.

After not being able to communicate for the last weeks, his social skills are probably not what they were. He tries to think about the last time he actually talked to someone, who knew his real identity and didn’t look down on him. There’s not much he can come up with and isn’t that a depressing thought.

“Don’t give me that hurt look, Solo. Your cat charm might work on Illya, but not on me.”

Napoleon shakes his head slightly, caught unaware of his body’s doings. Odd really.

Gaby gives him one of her unreadable looks and gets up. Napoleon watches her pick out some fruit, bread and cheese and carry it over to the armchair again. As she starts eating, Napoleon decides to let her be, although the urge to finally have a normal conversation again is still strong.

He distracts himself with grooming and trying to remember every detail about Rome that he knows. He wonders where they went yesterday. They can’t have seen everything. Maybe he’s going to sneak out today or at least try. In his mind’s eye he already made his way to the Trevi Fountain, when Gaby sets down her plate and turns to him again.

“You said you were stuck?”

Napoleon stops grooming himself, surprised at her sudden attempt at conversation, although he’d rather not answer that.

_I’m under Command. I can’t change._

Gaby frowns slightly.

“Who holds your token?”

Napoleon can feel his throat closing up, another Command making its presence known.

_Can’t say._

He can’t even tell her what his token looks like or where Sanders keeps it, especially not that he would like to have it back. They made sure that his basic constraining Commands are airtight.

“Did they set a limit?”

And here’s the problem, isn’t it?

_The limit is until I crawl back._

“Which you won’t.”

_Exactly._

Gaby nods knowingly. She seems to understand what that means for him and doesn’t ask further. Napoleon is grateful for that.

“Can you fit into my handbag?”

 Napoleon looks at her a little puzzled.

_Depends on the handbag, but I guess so._

When her lips lift into a conspiratorial smile, he knows something is up.

* * *

He listens to Gaby and Illya over lunch as they discuss their cover in more detail. Gaby seems to have accepted the situation somewhat, although she still manages to sneak in quirky details to jab at Illya. They agree that they can’t stay holed up in their rooms all week without becoming suspicious. The Circle has an extensive network of informants in all larger cities and Napoleon can’t imagine the Guild being too far behind in that aspect. A “six thousand feet tall” man with a scar on his temple is hard to forget, but if the chatter of the staff is only about the strange but cute couple with their cat, they might slip through the cracks. They agree on leaving the hotel, but  lingering only at crowded streets and tourist spots until the sun sets, which leaves them about three hours.

Napoleon has almost forgotten about Gaby’s question earlier, until she actually stuffs him in her handbag just before leaving their suite. He has to admit, he is a little touched, especially when Illya looks for him with a furrow between his brows before he hurries after Gaby. She only takes him out after they are at a safe distance from the hotel and sets him down on the street. Napoleon greets Peril with a meow, who looks at him as if Napoleon suddenly grew a second head. Before he gets the chance to take in his surroundings properly, Napoleon gets scooped up again and finds himself in Peril’s arms. He wiggles a bit to get Peril to loosen his hold. The Hunter complies, but he looks accusingly at Gaby.

“Why did you bring Cowboy?”

Gaby shrugs, the corners of her mouth lifting.

“I thought he would like to get out a bit too.”

She glances over the rim of her shades before tugging them a little higher. “We can still bring him back if you want that?”

One look at Peril’s face is enough for Napoleon to know that he will stay right where he is. Peril looks down at Napoleon with a little concern.

“He could get lost.”

When Gaby sighs, it sounds almost fond, which is definitely a first.

“You worry too much Illya. He’s smart, he won’t run.”

Strictly speaking, Napoleon did run and somehow managed to end up as the pet cat of a Hunter and his fake fey fiancée. It doesn’t really strike him as a smart move, but well, he’ll take any compliment he can get these days.

Illya sends a half-hearted scowl her way and shifts Napoleon to one arm.

“I will carry him.”

She smirks in their direction before walking on. “Do what you must.”

And Peril does.

Rome is just as beautiful as Napoleon remembers it. He gives them a small tour of his favorite spots, Gaby repeating historical facts and anecdotes for Peril. Getting carried around is just another bonus. Sadly, visiting museums is out of bounds, but it doesn’t hold the same appeal anyway, when Napoleon can’t hash out an actual working plan to steal his favorite pieces. After a short argument if they can bring a cat into a restaurant, they decide to just buy something to take with them and settle down next to the old colosseum. Peril takes the fish they bought and feeds it to Napoleon in small bits, before taking his own pastrami sandwich. He doesn’t even try to get out of Peril’s lap much to his surprise. With his belly full and Peril and Gaby’s voice flowing over his head and Peril’s hand absently carding through his fur, he has to admit that this was probably one the nicest days he had in a long time. The sky is a deep red, when they finished their meals and for once Gaby doesn’t seem in a fighting mood. After finishing her own sandwich, she leans back a little to watch the colosseum in the golden floodlights.

“Illya?”

His fingers twitch once in Napoleon’s fur, as he turns his head to her.

She only glances at him before turning back to the colosseum.

“What are we doing here?”

He frowns a little. “You wanted to see the sights, no?”

She chuckles softly. “Yes I did, but that’s not what I meant. Why did you spare me?”

Illya looks a little longer at her, before turning back to the colosseum.

“I do not like to kill.”

Napoleon remembers Peril drowning in blood and pain too well. He shifts a little and rubs his head on his hand, making the Russian smile softly.

Gaby watches them from the side of her eyes.

“But you’re good at it.”

It isn’t even a question, but Peril still nods.

They sit in silence, until Napoleon sees something moving in the corner of his eyes. He turns his head slightly to see two men standing in the shadows near the wall, one of them looking in their direction. Napoleon thinks he looks vaguely familiar, but can’t immediately place him. That changes, when the other turns to them. They are from the southern Europe branch of the Circle. Napoleon worked with them once a few years back and that was enough to last him a life time. He should have known that they would be still around.

_We need to go. Now._

Gaby glances at him questioning.

_There are two Circle members coming right at us._

Gaby is instantly on her feet.

“We should go back to the hotel.”

After a glance over to his side, Illya’s shoulders tense slightly before he follows Gaby up. Napoleon changes hands and Illya offers Gaby his arm. Quickly she shifts Napoleon and grabs Illya’s biceps. They make a not quite hasty escape, but they are fast. The sounds of the steps of the men following them echo behind them.

They almost left the colosseum behind them, when a third man steps into their path, effectively blocking their way. Only a few moments later the other two catch up.

“Excuse us, but we are looking for someone. I think you can help us.”

Peril’s smile is icy. “We are on a holiday. I’m sorry but we don’t know people around here. ”

The man to their left nods in mock sincerity.

“Can you give us directions then?”

Illya scoffs at them, letting Gaby’s arm go and stepping in front of her ever so slightly.

“We can point you to map.”

A condescending chuckle.

“I think the Lady would help us out best. I have to ask you to come with us.”

So it’s not Napoleon they’re after, but Gaby. He wonders what it is about her that draws both the Circle as the Hunters’ interest.

Gaby hums. “I think I have to decline, thank you.”

Neither of them moves, until one of them tilts his head in curiosity.

“A nice cat you have there. Pretty eyes, might be worth something.”

Napoleon doesn’t bother suppressing a hiss. If they get within his reach, he’s going to claw their eyes out. Literally.

“Would be a shame to separate it from his mistress, wouldn’t it?”

Illya is practically looming over the man in front of him now.

“Yes, that is why they will both stay with me.”

The man tilts his head apologetically.

“I’m afraid, you don’t get a say in this.” In a swift movement, the man to their left removes something from his pocket and throws it at Illya. He’s too close to evade it, instead Illya raises his hand to catch it.

For a second Illya freezes with the object clutched in his hand. Then he blinks once and opens his hand again. There’s a coin in it, not unlike the charms Napoleon used on his last mission with the Circle. The metal has turned dark as it falls to the ground. The surrounding men watch the falling charm with wide eyes. There’s a sweet satisfaction in seeing their shock just like Napoleon did when he first encountered Illya.

Illya doesn’t hesitate. With a well-aimed punch he knocks the man closest to him out cold. The Circle member hasn’t even hit the ground before Illya turns around to attack the other with his fist aimed at his throat. The man chokes noisily and stumbles back. Everything happened so fast, that Napoleon barely has the time to glance at the last remaining man with his hand raised towards them, palm first and spread fingered. It’s time enough for Napoleon to recognize the movement, but not enough to warn Gaby or brace for the blow.

The force of the magical attack sends Gaby flying backwards and Napoleon in her arms right with her. They hit the ground hard, their breaths knocked out of them both. Napoleon can still feel the tingle in his limbs when he hears Illya call out to them. Under Napoleon Gaby groans as she struggles to get to her feet. Napoleon wiggles out of her grip just in time to see the man Illya punched in the throat stumble back to them and reaching for a gun tucked into the back of his pants. Peril’s face is still turned towards them with concern written on his face, holding the other attacker in a chokehold, not looking at the other man.

Napoleon jumps up and runs towards the Circle member with the gun, straining against the Command for the first time since Sanders threw him out, but finds his body still won’t change. He can see the gun already raised as he attacks nevertheless. His teeth sink viciously into the man’s leg. A surprised scream rings through the night air accompanied by a shot. Napoleon doesn’t let go to see if it missed or not, instead sinks his claws in as deep as he can to climb up and jump at the arm holding the gun. He aims well, but his claws and teeth are not quite enough to get through the leather jacket. The man drops the gun with a curse, so Napoleon still counts it as a success although he gets shaken off just a moment later. He lands on his feet, but instantly receives a hard kick to his stomach.  

The force of it is enough to send him flying a few feet back. When he hits the ground, Napoleon stays there, curling in on himself.

“Stop right there.”

Gaby isn’t shouting, but she might have been for the harsh sound of her voice. Napoleon blinks an eye open, so see her with the man’s gun in her hand, pointing it at the Circle member. Her eyes are of the same steel as her words. Behind her, Peril drops his now unconscious opponent.

The remaining man hesitates, looking at Peril and Gaby, which is enough time for Peril to charge. The jaw of the man cracks audibly as Peril’s fist connects. He doesn’t get up after he falls.

Gaby lowers the gun and releases her breath as Illya turns to her, stepping in close, his hand slowly reaching out to her. He stops before they actually touch, his fingers hovering over her arm.

“Are you hurt?”

He’s so close that she has to raise her head to meet his gaze, her eyes widen a bit in surprise.

“I’m fine.”

He nods, relief bleeding into his eyes before he turns away again.

His eyes narrow as he looks down and scans the darkness. Napoleon needs a second to realize, that Peril is looking for him. The meow he lets out sounds pathetic even in his own ears, but it has the desired effect. Peril’s gaze immediately finds him and he practically runs the last few steps. Napoleon’s stomach still throbs painfully as he gets lifted up in Illya’s arms. Gentle fingers stroke over his head. 

“Are you alright, Cowboy?”

Well, he’s been better, but the familiar warmth of Peril already starts to seep into him and makes it a little more bearable. It’s not like he can really articulate that, but the beginning of a purr escapes him anyway. Peril turns back to Gaby.

“We need to leave before they get back on their feet.”

Gaby nods solemnly and follows Illya away from the colosseum to the streets. She glances at Napoleon and he can easily guess what she’s thinking. If Peril wasn’t in her company, he probably would have killed the Circle members. Napoleon can’t really fault him for this though, even if he had any love left for the Circle. Any Hunter would worry about hidden tracking spells. Peril might not have to, but he’s still taking a risk. In a face-off with a well-trained magic user, a baseline human always loses. Leaving the enemy alive means certain death for Hunters. There’s a reason the Guild only ever ambushes the Circle and never forces an open battle.

Speaking of ambush.

_Are we compromised?_

He doesn’t know how clear it came across, but Gaby seems to understand him anyway.

“Is it safe to go back to the hotel?”

Illya nods, not slowing his pace.

“They did not follow us from there. Nobody is tracking us.”

Something wet seeps into Napoleon’s fur. Of course nobody asked Peril if he’s alright. The bullet didn’t miss then.

_Hurry, he’s bleeding._

Gaby’s steps pick up a little.

They catch a cab on one of the tourist bus stops and pay way too much to get back to their hotel.

Napoleon wiggles out of Illya’s grip as soon as they are in their rooms. As he suspected, there’s a large dark stain at Illya’s side, the cut in the fabric revealing a bleeding gash. 

Just before Illya can make a quick getaway to disappear into the bathroom, Gaby steps in his way.

“I know you are bleeding, Illya. Let me help.”

Illya looks down at her, his arm hovering over the wound in a futile attempt to hide it.

“I can handle this alone.”

She doesn’t budge an inch.

“I know.”

For a few moments they stare at each other, before Illya’s shoulders droop ever so slightly. She touches his arm gently, a careful smile on her face.

“Sit down on, I’m getting your kit. At the bottom of the dresser right?”

He nods shortly, as Gaby turns around to fetch the kit.

Illya stays standing there, until Napoleon rubs along his legs to prompt him to start walking. Peril obediently follows Napoleon to one of the chairs and sits down. Just after Peril settled in, Napoleon jumps up right into his lap and curls up. The movement still hurts, but he doesn’t really care. A moment later Gaby returns with the kit, some hot water and a clean towel.

She carries the supplies to the table and lays it out before turning to them. She eyes Napoleon in Illya’s lap shortly, but doesn’t try to shoo him away.

“Illya, can you take off your shirt?”

Napoleon can feel Illya twitch below him, before slowly reaching for the hem of his shirt.

Slowly Illya pulls it over his head, inhaling sharply as the movement pulls at the wound. The torn fabric falls to the floor. Gaby doesn’t make a sound, but her eyes widen slightly as they glide over the countless scars on the revealed skin. Peril’s gaze falls to the floor, one of his hands wandering to Napoleon. In this moment Napoleon doesn’t even think about hesitating to press his head into it.

Gaby recovers just a moment later, fixing her gaze on the wound.

“It doesn’t look too deep.”

She picks up a bottle, reads the label shortly and drenches a corner of the towel with it. Illya hisses in pain, as she dabs at the wound. Her fingers don’t shake in the slightest, although Napoleon can hear a murmured sorry.

She cleans the wound thoroughly and closes it with a few well-placed stitches. Napoleon doesn’t know if it’s the tinker in her that makes her needlework that neat or if she had actual practice. It’s another reminder that he barely knows anything about her.

A bandage is tightly wrapped around Illya’s torso, looping over his shoulder a few times to make it stay where it is. Illya doesn’t look at her all this time, his eyes still on the ground.

After Gaby tucked in the end she bows down to retrieve Illya’s shirt. It is clearly ruined, but she hands it over anyway. It ends up in his lap, draped around Napoleon. They are silent for a few moments, until Illya finally raises his head a little. Hesitatingly he meets Gaby’s gaze through his lashes.

“I have heard some fey can talk to animals. Can you?”

Both Gaby and Napoleon blink in surprise.

“I guess so, but I’m not that good at it and animals don’t tend to think clearly.”

It probably only works for them because Napoleon isn’t really an animal, but he has no idea where Peril is going with this.

“Could you ask Cowboy if he hurts badly?”

Oh.

_Tell him I’m fine._

Gaby glances down at Napoleon doubtfully, before turning back to Illya.

“He is hurting, but it’s nothing that’s not going to be fixed by a few days rest.”

Illya nods, but the tension doesn’t quite leave him.

“And you are fine?”

Gaby tilts her head a little. “Why shouldn’t I be?”

“The gun. You touched metal. Isn’t that poisonous to you?”

She shrugs.

“It’s not for tinkers. I got lucky in this aspect.”

Seemingly satisfied with the answers, Peril nods, but a thoughtful look crosses his face. His lips part before he closes his mouth firmly again.

Gaby huffs out a breath.

“Spit it out already.”

Peril hesitates, glancing away for a moment.

“What can you do?”

She raises her eyebrows at him.

“As in what can I do as a fey?”

Illya nods.

Her eyes narrow for a moment as she hums thoughtfully.

“You don’t really know much about the magical world for a Hunter, do you?”

That’s exactly what Napoleon thought. Illya shakes his head, his eyes lowered. “My targets were Circle members or magical beasts. I did not need to know more than that. My briefing only said you would be a tinker.”

It sounds a lot like the Guild wanted Peril solely to kill for them, not even letting him think about anything else. The thought leaves a foul taste in Napoleon’s mouth.  

Illya hunches his shoulders slightly, then winces as the movement pulls at the stitches. 

“I know tinkers build and fix things, but not much else.”

Gaby stretches her arms over her head, letting her glamour go. She looks just as vibrant as she did before, her translucent wings spreading out behind her. “There isn’t much else that tinkers can do.” She pauses for a moment. “Do you want to see it?”

Illya hesitates shortly before giving a small nod.

“Alright, give me your shirt.”

Illya blinks once, but hands it over to her. Searching for the hole the bullet tore, Gaby turns it around in her hands. Holding it out so Illya can see, she exhales once and digs her fingers further into the fabric. The torn threads latch onto each other, the hole disappearing slowly, leaving only the bloody stain in the fabric.

Illya’s eyes are wide open in wonder, his hand reaching out, but stopping just shy of the mended fabric and drawing back. So, he _is_ aware of his abilities.

Gaby’s fingertips slowly brush over Illya’s knuckles, which makes him jump a little.

“Other than that my elven side allows me to invoke warmth, but I don’t know if it works on you.”

After a short beat of silence Illya touches the fabric. “Probably not.”

The threads dissolve again under his fingertips until the gash is as large as it was before.

Gaby huffs out a breath. “A pity really, your hands could use a little warmth.”

Illya hums, the corners of his mouth twitching upward as he inspects the renewed tear.

They sit in silence for a few moments, before Illya speaks again.

“Did you know the Circle was looking for you?”

Gaby shakes her head.

“Do you know why?”

A scoff.

“Probably the same reason the Guild is after me.”

Neither of them say a word after that. Napoleon remembers the night Illya dragged her home. They mentioned Gaby’s father, who is apparently a tinker, but Napoleon’s never heard of the Circle being interested in a tinker’s work. On the other hand, he was on a strictly need to know basis for all of their missions, and while he still managed to gather knowledge, there are probably a world of projects he’s never heard about.

They are quiet for a while, before Gaby gets up to put away the medical supplies. “You should go lie down.”

Illya nods and gets up as well, lifting Napoleon up with him.

It’s still a little early to go to bed, but the events left all of them tired and sore. While Gaby slips into the bathroom, Illya sets Napoleon down on the bed, and to Napoleon’s surprise, on the pillow. Grabbing a light spare blanket out of the closet, he arranges it around Napoleon to build some sort of nest. Napoleon just stays where he is and watches Peril tug at the fabric for another minute, before stroking once over Napoleon’s head.

“There, that should be more comfortable.”

Napoleon is not quite convinced. Softer than Peril’s chest, yes, but more comfortable is up for discussion. Still his stomach still aches too much for him to make things difficult, so he curls himself in and stays put. Peril fusses a little more with the blanket before straightening up.

Already bare-chested, Illya switches his pants with his pajama bottoms. He trades places with Gaby when she comes out of the bathroom. She takes out the book she picked up at the train station in Munich. The title doesn’t ring any bells as she sets it down on her bedside table, but again it’s a German book and Napoleon was never allowed the time to read as much as he wanted to.

It would be a good opportunity to ask Gaby a few things in private, but his mind is so sluggish that he can’t properly form anything resembling a question. The chance passes when Illya joins them. He lowers himself onto the mattress beside Napoleon before reaching up to stroke softly over his fur. It’s a welcome distraction from the pulsing in his stomach. It almost lulled him to sleep, until Peril’s voice cuts through the soft sounds in the hotel rooms.

“What is it like?”

Gaby glances shortly at him before her eyes find the pages of her book again. “What is what like?”

Illya’s gaze is fixed on Gaby, but not leering, more admiring. “Being fey.”

Her eyes stop wandering over the page, but she doesn’t set the book down. “What’s it like being a Hunter?”

Illya looks away, reaching out instead to stroke over Napoleon’s back.

Well, Gaby certainly knows how to end a conversation. Again, Napoleon can’t really blame her. She already put herself at risk by telling him about her abilities.

 To his surprise, Peril lifts his gaze back towards her after a few moments.

“Demanding.”

Gaby glances at him with an unreadable look. Illya swallows thickly. “Solitary, you could say. Not much contact allowed. Slows you down, makes you weak.”

She hums softly and lowers her book.

“Do you feel weak, now that you have company?”

A beat of silence.

“No.”

Gaby picks up her book again. Neither Peril nor Napoleon really expect her to answer, but after a few moments she throws them a glance and clears her throat.

“The Summer Court is wild and exciting, but there’s no purpose to a lot of their doings other than pleasure. Living with Tinkers is quiet and you don’t talk about much other than your work. I fitted in with neither of them in the end.”

Napoleon peeks over the blanket draped around him to look at her.  Her face doesn’t display much of emotion, but the marks on her skin flicker out of view a few times. It’s somehow funny how he ended up with these two people who never seemed to belong like himself.

After a short silence, Gaby props herself up on one arm to look at them properly.

“What does the brand on your chest mean?”

Peril’s hand moves up seemingly to touch it, but it stops at half the way.

“It’s from the Guild. Every Hunter has it.”

She glances down at the bandages covering a good part of it.

“It looks familiar somehow.”

Illya lifts his head from his part of the pillow and frowns at her. “You have met other Hunters before?”

With a quiet chuckle she gets up from her bed to get the lights. “Don’t worry, my darling _fiance_ , you’re my first.”

Illya’s mouth snaps shut with an audible click and his eyes drop hurriedly back to Napoleon. Even after the lights are switched off, Napoleon’s night vision allows him to see the red tinged tips of Illya’s ears. Well, he walked right into that one.

Gaby returns to the bed and slips under the covers. She wishes them a good night with a barely stifled yawn. Illya returns the sentiment, closing his eyes. Just as Napoleon begins to doze off, he hears Illya’s breath catch.

“Gaby?”

He gets a sleepy hum in return.

“What is dance into May?”

Gaby just snickers into her pillow and stays silent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for violence


	8. Chapter 8

The bruising isn’t as bad on the next morning as Napoleon thought it would be. But Peril doesn’t know that and he’s worried enough to want to bring him to a doctor. In the end, between Illya’s own injury and the Circle probably looking even harder for them, Gaby convinces him to stay indoors.

Gaby eats her breakfast on the balcony, basking in the late morning sun. Peril stays close by her, his paranoid streak heightened by the encounter with the Circle. He also continues to carry Napoleon, because apparently needing rest equals not being allowed to move on his own. Not that he complains much. He’s been in worse places than napping in Peril’s lap under the Italian sun. Now and then he blinks an eye open at some strange noises on the street below, but since Peril seems to have everything under control, he relaxes and ignores them.

He doesn’t know how long he slept but Gaby’s skin positively glows by that time they all get up to go back inside. Gaby disappears into the bathroom to shower, while Peril sets him down on the couch and finds his chess set.

Only a few moves into the game, Napoleon decides he’s had enough of dozing and doing nothing for the day, so he jumps down from the couch.

The balcony door is swinging slightly ajar from its frame. Apparently they had not properly closed it when they came back inside.

Napoleon thinks it’s rather careless of them. It’s probably time to teach Peril a lesson in security, or rather cat-security since that’s all he can manage without Gaby assisting him.

Under Peril’s eyes he darts over to the balcony door and nudges it open with his paw.

“Cowboy don’t!”

But Napoleon is already out. Jumping on the railing and taking in the view he would have in his human form is just too tempting.

He’s barely started wandering on the edges of the balcony, when he gets snatched back by two hands closing around his middle. Not a moment later he’s pressed to Peril’s chest, held tightly with no room to wiggle. The pressure against his tender stomach hurts and he immediately lets out an unhappy mewl.

“Sorry.”

He can hear Peril’s fast heartbeat loudly from where he’s pressed against his chest. With a few quick steps Peril carries him back inside, leaving the door wide open behind them.

“Do not scare me like that, Cowboy. You could have fallen.”

Illya’s hands slowly start to loosen. Napoleon manages to wiggle around to face Illya, the man’s fingers twitching, unable to let go completely.

“No more dangerous balancing acts, yes? You’re still hurt.”

It seems that Peril still doesn’t get the whole concept of being a cat, the railing was broad enough for him to lie down on and take a nap there, but his worries are still endearing, so-

 

Napoleon blinks and somehow he’s not in Peril’s arms anymore. He’s back at his usual spot on the couch, Gaby is watching intently him from the armchair next to him with a concerned expression, her hair wrapped up in a towel. There’s the sound of water running in the bathroom. His mouth tastes of blood.

“You’re back.”

Napoleon doesn’t understand.

_What happened?_

Gaby looks at him for a long moment.

“I felt something strange. When I came out to check, I saw you bite Illya’s hand.”

_I don’t remember._

The sad, understanding smile on Gaby’s face makes his blood run cold.

“I know you don’t.”

He knows what she’s going to say next, but he still can’t believe it.

“I tried to hear you, but I only got raw impressions, no clear thoughts.”

Like an animal.

Napoleon can’t breathe.

His animal side took over. It can’t be for more than a few minutes. But he knows it started. He’s losing his grip on his body, his animalistic brain shoving his human mind aside as if it’s no longer needed.

He can feel the couch dip next to him, Gaby’s perfume a soft note in the air. He doesn’t react.

“Was this the first time?”

Napoleon doesn’t respond, just curls in tight, trying to calm himself.

Gaby’s hands run soothingly over his back, taking his silence as the answer.

“Is there a way for us to stop it?”

Only if Sanders lifts the Command or loses Napoleon’s ring, both of which won’t happen. He is going to lose more and more of himself each time until there’s nothing left of him.

Maybe leaving the Circle behind was a mistake after all. He could try to find the Circle members from yesterday, but where would that lead him? The mere thought of going back to Sanders turns his stomach, but the prospect of himself just vanishing scares him more than he would like to admit.

Illya’s return snaps him out of it.

Napoleon barely dares to raise his head as Illya enters the room and stares at him, his hand wrapped in a bandage. Gaby looks up, but Illya’s eyes are fixed on Napoleon.

“How is your hand?”

“Fine.”

There’s a heavy silence between them before Gaby speaks up again.

“He feels bad about biting you. I can sense it.”

Illya frowns at her, but stays silent. Napoleon wishes Gaby to stop trying to make excuses for him, but he suddenly lacks the will to speak up.

Gaby’s fingers still card through his fur as he closes his eyes.

“Sometimes the things you do are beyond your control.”

A huff from Illya, then his quiet steps head towards him. Napoleon doesn’t try to scramble away. If Peril finally decides to throw him out, it would be okay. If he can’t stay with them, he will go back to the Circle. He really has no idea how he will act when _he_ is fully gone. Judging from the deep bite on Peril’s hand, his animal side is not quite as charming as he usually is. It’s He feels like a coward for leaving it up to Illya to decide if he stays with them or not, but he can’t make the decision himself.

A broad hand joins Gaby’s in running over his fur. Napoleon blinks his eyes open to find Peril bent over him, a careful smile on his face.

“I can understand that. I am not angry.”

The relief flooding through Napoleon is as sweet as it is unexpected.

Even if it’s all going to end for him, at least he won’t be alone.

***

Napoleon is glad that they stay at the hotel most of the time.

He was right. He loses more time, it happens right on the next day. He almost missed it, if not for the rip in the cushions right beneath him when he got up from the couch. The sight settles heavy on his shoulders, making it hard for him to get through his day as usual. He knows he can only try to make most of the time he has left, but it’s not easy. In his dark moments when he was still with the Circle, he imagined himself getting killed on a mission or put down when the Circle is through with him. Having left the Circle and still dying because of them is somehow worse. Even if his cat body will live a few years more, he as a person is going to die and the unfairness of it all stings.

Peril’s wound on his side seems to be healing fine. There is no suspicious redness of an infection when they change the bandages. Gaby’s eyes linger thoughtfully on the brand on his chest now that it’s in full view again. Napoleon does the same, if only to distract himself. From the encounter with Oleg it is safe to say that Peril was born into the Guild, so he’s been hunting for at least ten years, probably longer, Napoleon guesses. Does a Hunter get this mark at his introduction or after achieving something for the Guild? Considering Peril’s rank, even if it’s the latter, it must be quite old. It’s still a perfect circle, no deformation from age or scars crossing through it.  Even if Napoleon doesn’t recognize the symbol, it is still worth pondering over.

Something changed between Peril and Gaby after the attack. They are still not quite at ease with each other, but there’s a fragile trust between them.

It’s evening again when Illya pulls out his chess board and sets up a game, but instead of making a move he just stares at it for a minute before turning to Gaby, who’s on the couch with Napoleon. He just thoughtfully looks at her until Gaby puts down the paper she was reading with a little annoyed huff.

“What is it?”

“Are mermaids real?”

Napoleon immediately raises and cocks his head at Peril in astonishment, but the intense look in the Hunter’s eyes leaves no doubt about how serious Peril is.

Gaby seems a little surprised as well, as she answers.

“Yes, they are.”

It should have been something a Hunter knows, but Peril’s eyes light up with curiosity and awe.

It turns out, the mermaids are just the start. After another set of strange questions about what is real and what not, they end up talking about some basic concepts of magic, all of it basic knowledge he could have found in every other lore book.

The more questions Peril asks the stranger it gets. Gaby doesn’t really give him valuable information like the actual location of the Summer Court’s residence, but Peril soaks it all up like a sponge, his eyes sparkling with delight over every new detail. Who would have thought that the impossibility to breathe without air could be anything worth discussing in detail, but here they are doing exactly that.

Napoleon wonders where Peril would be, if he wasn’t brought up on the Hunter’s side. But then again, the three of them would have never met, if Illya wasn’t a Hunter.

It’s something Napoleon adds to his sluggish thoughts when he’s curled up on Peril’s chest in the night. The three of them staying in Rome, still not well acquainted, but on an unlikely holiday instead of in hiding. He could drag Illya and Gaby around the city like he wants to, Gaby would turn heads everywhere and Peril would stare all of them down. They could eat in restaurants, which are actually good and not just tourist traps. They could go to a bar afterwards, maybe dancing. There would be no Circle, no Guild, just them. They would be free.  

***

A day after that they leave the door to the balcony open again. Napoleon doesn’t know if he should laugh or cry when Gaby steps on the dead bird left in front of their bed. Neither Peril nor Gaby scold him for it though. He doesn’t know what to think about that.

They eat lunch on the balcony, something light with some chilled summer wine to counter the heat. Napoleon is currently in Gaby’s lap for a change. He only dragged himself up to go with them because Peril was getting worried about Napoleon’s sudden lethargy and bursts of strange behavior. In another situation it would be funny that Peril finds his behavior only odd when he’s literally acting like a cat. At least Gaby doesn’t fuss over him.

Peril has already finished his lunch, but stays to keep her company. He wears a pair of shades Napoleon has never seen before and he has to admit they look quite fetching on him. The silence between them is comfortable, so it surprises Napoleon only a little when Peril is the first to break it.

“If you teleport, can you take your clothes with you?”

Gaby smirks a little. “Usually yes.”

He hums, before opening his mouth a moment later.

“Can shapeshifters take their clothes with them?”

Napoleon’s ears twitch at the question. Gaby’s hand quickly rests on his back in a calming manner.

“Only if you put a spell on the clothes.” She takes another sip of wine and just looks at Peril expectantly. If it was a random question, there would be no follow up, but Peril starts to frown thoughtfully instead.

“But the Circle is only for human magic users, yes?”

Napoleon really doesn’t like where this is going. Gaby seems to sense it as her hand starts running through his fur. Still there’s no reason would for her not to answer that. It’s not as if the recruiting criteria of the Circle were a secret in the magic world. 

“Yes, humans only.”

Illya’s frown deepens.

“How many forms can a shapeshifter have?”

Gaby hesitates. This is still not bordering on anything more than common knowledge, but the questions are definitely not random anymore.

“Most of them have two, but there are some who have more.”

“Are there ones who have a human form?”

Napoleon’s fur is on end, but he can’t fight the reaction. He just hopes that Peril doesn’t notice, but he can’t tell where exactly the Hunter is looking with his sunglasses on.  

“It’s rare, but yes.” With her free hand she takes another sip of her wine. “Any particular reason you’re asking this?”

Peril is silent for a moment.

“I think I met one in East Berlin.”

_He thinks right._

If Gaby is surprised, she doesn’t show it. The sound of her voice doesn’t give her away either.

“You think?”

Illya shrugs, his head turned slightly to the side, hopefully just enjoying the view.

“He looked human and used charms from the Circle, but when he disappeared, he left his clothes behind.”

Gaby hums casually, then there’s silence between them again. Slowly Napoleon starts to relax.

They stay on the balcony, Peril bringing his chess board outside. If Napoleon wasn’t still sore from the kick he received, he probably would have made sure one of the pawns goes flying off the balcony, but he contents himself with imagining it.

Peril is in his second game when he speaks up again.

“Could the Circle be unaware that he’s not human?”

Napoleon’s ears flick back with unease. Why can’t Illya just let it go?

“That is unlikely.”

Peril’s eyebrows draw together above his sunglasses. “So the Circle recruits Shapeshifters with human appearances?”

Gaby glances down at Napoleon shortly, before turning to Illya.

“They didn’t necessarily need to recruit him.”

G _aby please drop it._

Peril really doesn’t need to know this. It would make a difference anyway. She glances down at him again and he already knows she won’t listen.

“If a shapeshifter created a token-“

He really doesn’t have to hear this.

Napoleon jumps from Gaby’s lap and disappears into the suite.

It’s not that he fears Peril will figure him out on his own, not after all this time, but he would rather live without being reminded of his situation more than he already is. This is his business and none of hers. So what, if Peril knows about shapeshifters and their position in the magic world, so what if he feels bad for him. Napoleon doesn’t need pity. This was his decision and he’s trying to live with it. He doesn’t need them talking about him over his head, without Peril even realizing what he’s doing.

He spends the rest of the day not on the couch but on top of the grandfather clock, halfway hidden behind the ornaments. He lets them search the suite when he doesn’t appear for his dinner, only giving a quiet meow when Peril puts on his shoes to go out to look in the lobby despite Gaby’s assurances.

Although he still feels a little betrayed, he goes with them as they turn in for the night. He takes up residence on Peril’s chest as usual, held by a pair of strong arms.

He just wants to be done with everything.

***

Peril has gone out alone, leaving Gaby and Napoleon back at the suite. Napoleon lingers in bed as getting up seemed pointless, since his animal brain will make him get up anyway when it takes over today. It’s only a few minutes, once a day, but it’s always a little longer than before. He wonders when he will have control over his body for less than half a day, when he won’t be able to get too close to them in fear of suddenly lashing out. A few months? Weeks? Less? He doesn’t know.

 It’s around noon when Gaby sits down next to him and runs her fingers along his back. He would like to hold on to the resentment he tried to work up in the morning hours, but now he’s too tired for that. Blinking an eye open at the contact, he sees Gaby looking down at him. Her eyes are compassionate, but she doesn’t smile. He has to admit, he likes that about her.

“Don’t you want to tell him?”

Napoleon doesn’t know how to answer that.

He chose this. He could have gone back to the Circle, but he didn’t. These are the consequences. To risk his place here for maybe a few more weeks of being treated as an actual equal before his mind vanishes doesn’t seem worth it.

Still the thought that Illya will remember him only as a cat leaves his insides raw.

Napoleon curls his tail around her wrist and stays silent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings for depressed thoughts, loss of control over one's body


	9. Chapter 9

The week is over faster than anticipated. They pack up their belongings on the afternoon, ready to check out in the morning. Neither Peril nor Gaby talk as they stuff everything back into their bags. Illya’s movements are as smooth as if his side doesn’t even know what a bullet looks like. Napoleon’s on the edge since morning, unsure what’s about to happen tomorrow. It looks like they’re all headed towards what Gaby said back in Berlin.

_I’ll go my way and you go yours and I will never see your face again._

Napoleon wonders what _her way_ means exactly. Not that he has any idea, what Peril’s plans are. Even if they go separate ways, the Guild will definitely not stop hunting him.

He watches them from the couch as they pretend not to glance at each other.

Clearing his throat, Peril breaks the silence first.

“You should leave Rome. The Circle will find you sooner or later.”

Gaby shakes her head, not looking up from her a little too full suitcase.

“I need to stay here.”

Illya pauses in covering his weapons with his shirts. “Why?”

Gaby doesn’t answer.

So this is the line apparently.

Peril straightens and turns to her.

“Where are you going to stay?”

She shrugs, her fingers halting. “I don’t know yet.” A small pause, then she closes her suitcase. “Where are you going?”

Illya stays silent. Napoleon suspects he doesn’t know either.

Neither of them point out the obvious solution.

_Stay together until things quiet down, lay low until the Circle is convinced you’ve left the city._

Napoleon realizes he reached Gaby with that thought, when she turns to him. She doesn’t repeat the suggestion to Peril, which is enough of an answer.

It really doesn’t look like Napoleon will get his way. He should be used to it by now.

Silently he gets up from his spot and strides over to Gaby. She starts slightly as he brushes against her legs and hops onto the closed suitcase.

_I own a small house, about an hour from Rome._ He sighs internally. _You can have it._

Gaby raises her eyebrows slightly at him.

_It’s not like I’m ever going to need it again, am I?_

As much as he hates to admit it, it’s the truth. Everything he owns, even if the Circle doesn’t know about its existence, he will never be able to make use of again. 

Her expression saddens. “Thank you.”

Illya looks up with a puzzled expression.

“What for?”

She turns to him, a small smile on her face.

“For helping me escape. I appreciate that.”

Illya looks at her silently for a moment.

“You’re welcome.”

* * *

Despite the cloud of melancholy that settles over them, they spend a quiet day no different than the others. When Peril gets out his chess set in the evening, Gaby joins him in the living room, settling down on the couch with Napoleon. Peril doesn’t comment when Gaby feeds Napoleon bits off her plate. A tumbler with gin finds its way onto the table as well. They don’t talk. Gaby drinks in silence and watches Peril play, one hand buried in Napoleon’s fur.  

After a while Napoleon notices that her hand gets heavier and heavier until it slides off entirely. Napoleon turns his head to find her dozed off on the couch, her empty glass nearly falling from her fingers.

Napoleon slips soundlessly off the couch and jumps up the table instead, effectively interrupting Peril’s game by sitting down in the middle of the board. Despite Napoleon’s rudeness Peril just reaches to stroke Napoleon’s head once. Only after that does he notice Gaby’s slumbering form. It’s a good thing she has already changed into her pajamas.

With a small smile the Hunter gets up from his armchair. A soft shaking of her shoulder from him doesn’t wake Gaby, neither does calling her name. The gin in her blood is probably multiplying her stubbornness to stay asleep. Illya gives up and takes the glass from her hands before carefully slipping his hands under her. Apparently it’s not much of a difference for Peril between carrying a cat or a grown woman from the ease with which he lifts her from the couch.

Gaby holds on loosely to him as he carries her towards their bedroom, but doesn’t wake. Napoleon follows them into the bedroom. Watching Peril trying to pull back the blankets without dropping Gaby might be the best entertainment Napoleon has had all day.

Peril lowers Gaby carefully on the bed, arranging her limbs and draping the blanket over her. When he’s about to step back, Gaby’s hand slips out from under the blanket to capture his wrist, making Peril pause in his movement.

Gaby’s voice is nothing more than a quiet mumble, almost too low to understand.

“You know, you could stay with me.”

Illya’s eyes widen a little in surprise.

She turns her head and buries her face into her pillow. “Just until you know where to go.”

Peril pauses and just looks at Gaby with a soft expression, before he sets down her hand.

“Good night little chop shop girl.”

Napoleon shakes his head internally at the newest of Peril’s awful nicknames.

_Seems like I’m in good company, chop shop girl._

Her eyebrows furrow in disdain before flopping on her side away from him.

“Shut up, Cowboy.”

Illya just glances at Napoleon shortly, shaking his head and stepping back, his little smile still firmly in place.

The sudden recollection that this is could actually be their last night together dampens Napoleon’s mood. Firmly deciding against wallowing in it he stays with Gaby and curls in on the pillow next to her. Peril joins them shortly, rearranging Napoleon to lie on top of him before turning out the last light on his bedside. 

* * *

When Napoleon wakes up the next day, he’s no longer surrounded by Peril’s arms. He sits up and stretches a little to find Peril awake and staring at him.

His eyes flick from him to Gaby’s face pressed into Illya’s shoulder. One of her arms is thrown over Peril’s middle behind Napoleon. Peril looks at Napoleon helplessly, just like he did when Napoleon stole his pillow the first night he brought him home. Peril’s inability to throw cats out of his sleeping space seems to extend to fey as well. Knowing Peril, he probably waits for Gaby to move away in her sleep before he makes any attempt to escape.

Too bad that Napoleon has other plans.

Napoleon turns to Gaby, his tail flexing behind him once. He can almost hear Peril’s silent pleas as he sets down his paw on Gaby’s hand. Continuing his way off the bed, Napoleon walks all over Gaby. Peril stiffens, when she groans once. As a finishing touch, Napoleon turns around again before he jumps off the bed and flicks his tail in her face.

Gaby raises her head and squints at Illya, who looks like a deer caught in the headlights. Gaby’s gaze wanders slowly from his face down to his chest until she finally finds her arm still resting on Peril’s stomach.

Napoleon is a little disappointed, when she simply mumbles something, turns around to the other side, buries her head under her pillow and promptly falls back asleep.

Peril lets out a long sigh before sitting up. He looks at Napoleon accusingly, but still picks him up on his way out of the bedroom with his clothes. After a quick trip to the bathroom, they leave the hotel together.

Mumbling to Napoleon in soft Russian, too low for him to catch the meaning, Illya walks down the streets until he finds a bakery and gets breakfast.

It’s odd to be alone again with Peril. He would miss Gaby when they part ways and not only because she can understand him. For a second Napoleon considers going with Gaby instead of Peril, but he drops the thought quickly. He doesn’t want to leave Peril alone. He’s not the only one losing the single person he can really talk to.

Before long, they’re both back at the hotel, Peril ordering coffee for them on the way up to their room.

Gaby’s still in bed when they return.

After setting Napoleon down, Peril heads out to the balcony, closing the door behind him. He barely finished unpacking their breakfast, when there’s a knock on their door. Napoleon’s eyes follow Peril as he goes to open it.

Napoleon realizes the room service is a little too fast, when the door bursts open and a man comes crashing in.

Peril manages to avoid getting rushed over by the intruder with a quick step. Without pause the Hunter grabs him. Using the man’s own speed, Peril throws him against the wall. The intruder’s head leaves a dent as he collapses to the ground.

“Illya? What’s going on?”

Gaby shuffles into the room, still in her pajamas and rubbing her eyes. She stops in her tracks when she sees the man on the floor, blood seeping into the carpet from a wound on his forehead. Peril is quick to kneel down and go through the intruder’s jacket. After a few moments Peril pulls out a charm, watching it crumble to dust in his hands.

“Scout. We need to leave. Now.”

It’s not even five minutes before the door closes behind them.

They stride through the lobby, Illya just throwing a stack of notes at the woman behind the counter, from the looks of it more than enough to cover their bills. Nobody tries to stop them.

Outside, Gaby walks up to the nearest parked car. Peril doesn’t question to question her, when the car unlocks at her touch. He hesitates as he tries the door of the backseat, but the door stays unlocked.

He throws first Napoleon into the passenger seat, then himself and everything they own in the backseat. Napoleon is nearly flattened under the duffle bag Gaby throws on the passenger seat beside her.

With a screeching of wheels, they speed off.

Illya is keeping lookout at the back, but it doesn’t appear that anyone is following them.

“Where are we going?”

Gaby glances at him through the rearview mirror.

“A friend’s house.”

Illya’s eyes narrow slightly.

“What friend?”

“Don’t worry, he’s trustworthy.”

He hums once, but doesn’t ask further, leaving Napoleon to wonder to what degree she means it and to what degree she wants Illya to stop asking questions.

They leave Rome behind, Peril still keeping an eye out at the backseat, Napoleon in the front giving directions. He underestimated Gaby’s driving. They only took about forty minutes to arrive at the small, remote town in which Napoleon had lived for almost a year.

It hadn’t changed much since he left, Napoleon notes, as they drive slowly towards the house. Their car attracts a few curious glances, but Napoleon is sure it will lessen with time. Napoleon remembers being welcomed to almost every home in this street within weeks, even when his Italian was still atrocious. Gaby will be fine here.

As his house comes into view, Napoleon sets his paws on the board in front of him and pushes himself higher up to get a better view.

His house still looks the same, although the small lawn clearly needs some work. If it wasn’t for the high, unkempt grass, it would be completely unremarkable, looking just like every house in the street.

_Stop here._

Gaby does just that, following Napoleon’s gaze to their destination. “We’re here.”

Illya hums in the backseat. No one moves for a few moments, all eyes on the house in front of them. Gaby kills the engine and reaches over to Napoleon. With him gathered in her arms, she gets out of the car and heads towards the house.

_The key is tucked under the windowsill on the left._

Napoleon gets transferred to her other arm as she gets the key.

The front door opens easily. The small hall looks just as unassuming as the exterior, nothing but a few empty hooks for jackets and another door.

_Go on._

Gaby pockets the key and crosses the hall. Peril follows her closely, suspicious of the place.

Together they step into the living room behind the door.

As Napoleon expected, it’s everything has remained just like the day he left.   All the furniture is covered with white sheets, so it should be fine after a bit of dusting.

Peril sets down Gaby’s suitcase in the middle of the room as Napoleon wiggles out of Gaby’s hold. He rubs against Peril’s leg quickly as he passes him, eager to inspect his the house once again.

He slips into the master bedroom. The bed takes up most of it, a dresser is shoved into a corner. Napoleon tries to remember which clothes he left here, but he comes up with nothing. The rest of the house is bare, except for a few old tins in the kitchen cupboards. He eyes the stove, which served him well when he lived here. A sudden wave of sadness overcomes him when he realizes he will never cook again. It was probably the closest thing to a hobby he had left.

It’s for the best that he introduced Gaby to the house. At least she can fill it with life when he will no longer be able to. With an internal sigh, he leaves the kitchen to join Peril and Gaby again.

He slips back into the living room in time to see Peril uncover one of the paintings on the wall. Winding between Peril’s legs until he gets picked up, Napoleon enjoys what is probably his a final look at one of his favorite of all the paintings that he’s ever owned. Pissarro’s ‘The Boulevard Montmartre, Twilight’ is still as stunning as Napoleon remembers it.

Peril stares at it with slightly widened eyes, his fingers twitching in Napoleon’s fur.

“This painting is lost.”

Napoleon turns in Peril’s hold to look up at the man. His eyes are wide, his lips slightly parted. Who would have guessed, a Hunter with an interest in art?

Taking a step forward, Illya examines it more closely, probably looking for signs that it’s a forgery. Well, Napoleon knows he won’t find any, since it’s the real deal. Napoleon always intended to find the original owners before the Circle enslaved him.

Shaking his head in disbelief, Peril steps back, his eyes never leaving the picture.

“Who is your friend again?”

There’s a chuckle from the door behind them, way too deep to be Gaby.

“Isn’t that the question.”

Napoleon knows the voice. He would like to forget it, but he knows it.

When Peril turns around the first thing Napoleon’s eyes fall on is his ring, fitting perfectly around Sanders’ finger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning for violence


	10. Chapter 10

Sanders looks just like Napoleon remembers him, he same trench coat, the same hat and the same condescending smirk. His arms hang relaxed down his sides, Napoleon’s ring on his right hand, as he steps forward looking around him.

Peril stands still, holding on to Napoleon, but his body is tense and ready to spring. Napoleon sees Gaby, standing halted at the doorway, looking warily between Illya and Sanders.

Napoleon’s eyes meet Sanders’. Cold dread settles in Napoleon’s stomach. Even if he only has a few weeks left, or even days, Napoleon knows he can’t go back. He can’t live under Sanders’ Commands again, the constant choosing between forcing himself or being forced nonetheless. If he goes back, it will kill him.

Sanders’ gaze flicks past Napoleon as he narrows his eyes at Illya.

“You’re Oleg’s special boy, aren’t you?”

Illya’s hands twitch in his fur as Sanders’ gaze wanders up and down the Hunter’s form.

“You don’t seem that special to me, but you certainly have the nerve to take what belongs to the Circle.”

He turns his head towards Gaby.

"Snatching Miss Schmidt just as our agent of choice went missing was definitely a good move."

Napoleon can barely keep his claws from coming out. He knows what comes next.

Sanders gaze turns to him and Peril again.

"But it looks like he achieved his purpose anyway. You can let go of him now."

Illya narrows his eyes at the man and tightens his grip around Napoleon.

Sanders’ smirk drops with impatience.

"Come here, Solo."

The Command takes hold instantly. His body struggles in Illya’s hold, surprising the Hunter into using his second arm to hold on to him. Napoleon feels like he sinks his teeth into his own hand as he bites Illya hard, making the Hunter drop Napoleon to the floor.

He can feel Peril's gaze on his back as his body walks stiffly towards Sanders. His confusion won’t last long. Peril is too smart not to understand what is happening.

Sanders is his master. He’s not free.

Reaching Sanders’ feet, he turns just in time to see understanding flash across Peril's face, then betrayal, before it loses all expressions altogether.

Napoleon never felt so awful in his whole life.

He turns to Gaby, who took a few careful steps towards Illya.

_I swear I didn't know._

He doesn't get the chance to see if she believes him as Sanders opens his mouth again.

“Change.”

His body complies mercilessly.

He doesn’t know if he screams. The ringing in his ears drowns out everything else.

Next thing he knows he's lying naked on the ground in a heap of unfamiliar limbs, shivers running over his body. He can’t open his eyes, even breathing hurts. His skin is on fire, stretched too tight about his aching bones, his muscles twitching and burning.

Bile rises in his throat and he just hopes he can hold it down until he can move into a position where he won't choke on his own vomit.

“Kneel.”

His body is forced upright, spine straightening and arms resting limply on his thighs. The nausea worsens. Squeezing his eyes shut, he lets his head fall onto his chest. There are still ears on top of his head, a tail, fangs in his mouth. Humanoid then, not fully human. Of course.

He was never human in Sanders’ eyes.

There is silence apart from his ragged breaths.

He feels Illya’s and Gaby’s eyes on him and feels sick for a different reason altogether.

Gaby’s voice cuts through the noise of his own blood rushing through his ears.

“How did you find us?”

A condescending chuckle.

“I knew about this house. When we located him in Rome, it was just a question of when you would turn up here.”

Napoleon doesn’t need to look up to know that Illya’s gaze just hardened. He knows what the Hunter thinks and he doesn’t blame him. Napoleon, shapeshifter and liar, led them right into a trap.

Sanders even told him, that he knew about his stashes. He should have been more careful.

He knows it’s too late now to explain himself to Illya, but he wished he did.

Maybe he earned this.

Sanders voice snaps Napoleon out of his thoughts.

“You really had no idea, had you boy?”

His eyes sting with the effort of opening them, his neck screams when he lifts his head a little.

“So Miss Schmidt left you in the dark as well. Maybe she’s not that against coming with us.”

 It seems appropriate that Napoleon manages to raise his eyes at Illya, just in time to see another wave of betrayal wash over his face.

Sanders seems to be enjoying himself.

“Of course she knew. She’s fey after all.”

Fingers twist into Napoleon’s hair, tilting his head back, exposing his throat. The pain from the pull against the oversensitive roots of his hair is unbearable, making him almost lose consciousness. When he sees Illya’s expression, he wished he had.

“We could just ask him.”

Illya refuses to look at him. The trembling of Napoleon’s limbs intensifies.

“Did Miss Schmidt know you’re with the Circle, Solo?”

His mouth falls open and there is nothing he can do to hold the words in. “She knew.”

Sanders loosens his grip but not his Command, still leaving Napoleon on his knees.

“Well, your little stunt cost us enough time already, Solo.” He stretches his hand out towards Gaby.

“Mrs. Schmidt, please accompany us. I promise you, the Circle will reward you generously for your cooperation.”

Gaby’s eyes flash once in Napoleon’s direction before she drops her glamour. Her wings are fanning out behind her, the copper swirls on her skin dance on around her limbs like flames.

“Thank you, but no. If you would unhand Mr. Solo now.”

The temperature in the room rises, her markings grow brighter until they’re glowing like molten metal. She’s getting ready to fight.

Napoleon strains against the Command’s hold in panic. She can’t fight Sanders. She doesn’t stand a chance. She doesn’t even have to fight. She’s going to walk free after this is over. Harming her would cause dispute with the Courts, even if she’s a half-breed.

Unless she attacks first.

“Gaby-“

“Silence, Solo.”

His mouth clamps shut.

“Leave her alone.”

Illya puts himself between her and Sanders. Napoleon’s shout of frustration stays trapped in his throat.

This is not some scuffle with unprepared Circle novices. Immunity against magic won’t help him, if Sanders decides to collapse the building and burry Illya beneath it. Napoleon has seen him do it before.  

Illya needs to stay out of this, but Napoleon already knows the Hunter won’t, even before he opens his mouth again.

“I know what you want with her. You can take me instead. I am of more use to you.”

Napoleon can only look at Illya in disbelief, mirroring Gaby behind the Hunter.

Her hand closes around his biceps, trying to turn him around to her, but Illya doesn’t move.

Napoleon always suspected that Illya was deep down just an idiot in shiny armor waiting to happen. Taking in the stray cat that scratched him was clue enough. But nothing is going to keep the Circle from taking Gaby. Maybe it will give her a few more days while the Circle is busy frying Illya’s brain for information about the Guild before erasing his memory.

Except the spells won’t work on Illya.

Instead he will be tortured and killed.

Napoleon’s hands slowly ball into fists as his eyes drill into Peril, trying to convey that this isn’t worth it, but Illya isn’t even looking at him. This is stupid and useless. Peril has to know this.

Maybe he does.

Sanders does, definitely.

“Alright.”

Without another word Illya detaches Gaby’s fingers from his arm, never taking his eyes off the sorcerer.

There’s the snap of fingers directly next to Napoleon’s ear, making him wince at the noise.

“Before we go, get that painting.”

Napoleon’s body jerks. A flare of anger shoots through him, almost stronger than the pain of moving, but he knows it’s useless, just like everything else.

His body stands up from the floor and stiffly walks over to the painting. When he removes it from the wall, Napoleon considers if he has slack enough to destroy the painting instead of bringing it with him. The Circle doesn’t need money. This is just another small demonstration of power, when Sanders hangs it up in one of his offices for Napoleon to remember the time he fooled himself into believing he could leave the Circle behind.

When he turns around Illya has walked over to the sorcerer.

There’s a slight twitch in Illya’s shoulder, before he leans in. Napoleon notices tension in his neck, the way he stands, anticipating _something_.

Their fingers brush and a sudden burst of magic erupts between them.

The air is punched from Napoleon’s lungs. There’s the sound of shattering glass from the windows. His hands twitch, dropping the painting. His eyes dart after it, startled and staring. He is under Command. He can’t drop the painting. Yet he did.

Napoleon turns his head to see Illya gripping Sanders’ hand tightly.

Choking sounds are coming from Sanders, his eyes widened in shock as they stare at Illya. Illya stares right back, expression hard.

Sanders’ mouth works through a number of words, only for one to be voiced.

“…How?”

Illya’s fingers tighten around the man’s hand and it starts falling apart, just crumbling like sandstone.

Napoleon can only stare in wonder as cracks break out all over Sanders’s face as his arm disintegrates. He can hear Gaby gasp somewhere behind them, but Illya just stands there, watching Sanders literally fall apart with no indication of surprise. And then Napoleon understands.

Illya broke the spells around Sanders that prevented his aging. How did he know?

The Commands on Napoleon collapse with Sanders.

The muscles holding Napoleon upright give out and he crashes to the floor. A lightness settles into him which is completely at odds with his aching body. Raising his head from the ground is both easy and excruciating.

The windows are shattered. Illya and Gaby are still on their feet, apparently unharmed. On the floor in front of Illya there’s a heap of clothes mixed with what looks like a pile of dust.

All the chaos in his mind resolves into one single thought.

This is his chance, maybe his last. His body screaming in protest doesn’t matter as he forces himself to move. It hurts too much for him to care about pride. He bites his lips, his fangs nicking the soft skin, and crawls to the pile of clothes and ash that used to be Sanders.

His fingers shake as he digs through it frantically. He needs to find his ring, it has to be in there somewhere.  The dust he blows up makes him cough and nearly gag with the realization what the dust actually is, but he doesn’t stop. A new cold, sick feeling makes his gut clench, when he comes up empty.

A scream of frustration tears from his throat. This is his only chance of ever getting free. What did he miss? Did Sanders place a spell on it as a failsafe? Or teleported it to his second in command or someone else in the Circle? He feels bile rising in his throat. Napoleon can’t do this again, he just can’t –

“Solo?”

Gaby’s voice startles him. His head jerks up to find her crouched before him, Peril standing above them. Gaby is looking at him with compassion and worry, but Illya’s eyes only flick at him once, before his gaze returns to his hand.

The Hunter’s fingers are still balled into a fist. The hand with which he gripped Sander’s hand and killed him. Sanders’ right hand. None of them move for what feels like an eternity, then Peril uncurls his fingers. Dust trickles down as he turns his hand. Napoleon knows before he sees it. His ring shines in the palm of the Hunter.

And suddenly the last weeks don’t matter anymore. It doesn’t matter how Peril treated him, that Gaby might consider him some sort of friend. In this moment it all means nothing to Napoleon. Someone else holds his token and he’s too weak to fight for it and by the time he wakes up, new Commands will be in place.

His eyes flick from his ring to Peril’s face, the Hunter’s expression unreadable.

“Please I-“

He doesn’t even know what he wants to say, what will help him this time. His throat is too dry to form words. His eyesight gets blurry around the edges and the room starts to spin. When darkness comes over him, he doesn’t try to fight it.

* * *

There are voices.

He is not alone. Not being alone means he needs to be on alert. He doesn’t know how many or who they are. He tries but can barely blink open an eye. Millions and millions of needles are prickling across his body, agonizing in their numbers.

The voices get closer. He should make himself smaller, curl into a ball, but it’s too hard to move.

Someone calls his name. He should acknowledge them or else he’s in trouble. His eyelids twitch, but still stay closed. His breathing gets more ragged as he tries fails again and again.

Suddenly a hand is on his head, fingers in his hair. He tenses, expecting to be pulled up by it, but instead it moves slowly over his head. The touch is soft but the movement only irritates his skin to the point that it feels like it’s getting ripped off. It’s nothing like the gentleness he remembers from Peril and Gaby and that somehow makes it hurt worse. A sound of pain escapes his lips. The fingers disappear.

He isn’t sure if the shushing is directed at him, but he takes it as his cue to slip into the blissful darkness again.

* * *

_“You knew.”_

_His voice is calm, but the accusation in it is still palpable._

_“Yes.”_

_A heartbeat of silence._

_“He thought he would be gone before-“_

_“I understand.”_

_He doesn’t sound like he understands._

* * *

The next time he wakes, the ground is shaking below him. He’s covered in some kind of fabric, which feels like sandpaper on his sensitive skin. He would scratch all his skin off except he’s too exhausted to move.

It takes several minutes before he realizes that he’s in some sort of vehicle, from the relative expanse of where he’s lying, probably in the backseat of a car.

He needs even more time to blink one eye open. He was right, he’s in a car, wrapped in a white sheet.

Gaby sits behind the wheel, Peril next to her. The radio is on, playing an Italian song Napoleon knows from somewhere. He can’t stand the brightness, the intensity of the colors, and lets his eye fall shut again.

He concentrates on the song, trying to block out the ever-present pain. As he drifts off to it, a thought occurs to him.

They didn’t leave him behind.

He doesn’t know if that’s good or bad.

* * *

_“You’re acting like he means nothing to you.”_

_“He doesn’t. I don’t know him.”_

_“Not true. You cared then and you still do.”_

_Wood and metal creaks, heavy footsteps receding._

_“At least he cared about you.”_

_The footsteps stop._

_“How would you know?”_

_“Why do you think he stayed with you?”_

* * *

He is not in a car anymore. Or maybe it’s not moving. He’s lying on his side and his body is still aching, but at least he can think now. The sheet is still wrapped around him, but there is no cushion against his back, so no car then.

He’s too comfortable to be lying on the floor. There’s a soft breeze of air and in the next moment he is shivering. Maybe he was cold all along and only notices it now, but he can’t seem to stop. He groans as he curls in tighter, may have been a mistake, because a split second later he hears footsteps.

“Solo? Are you awake?”

He knows the voice. Sunshine and shared dinners and wings. Gaby, friend.

“Cold-“ he breaks off in a cough that shakes him even more.

He feels the – what is he lying on? A couch? A bed? Maybe just a mattress on the floor? –dip beside him. At the first touch to his forehead he flinches. A soft shush, then her palm lies flat against his forehead. It’s only for a few moments, gentle, endurable.

“You feel hot. Are you sick or is it the change?”

He wracks his brain for an answer. The change interferes with his body temperature. Maybe his body is still trying to warm him up to Cat, but given his luck he might as well have caught a cold.

Before he can answer, a heavy blanket is spread over him.

“Better?”

Napoleon nods and buries his face under the blanket. Gaby stays sitting next to him, but he doesn’t mind. It’s nice actually. He doesn’t fall asleep again, but decides to stay under the blanket until the shivers subside.

It only occurs to him, that the blanket appeared without her moving at all, when he hears Peril’s voice.

“This happens every time?”

Napoleon takes a deep breath. At some point he needs to deal with them, the empty spot on his finger, everything. His muscles protest as he draws the blanket down a little, so that his face is uncovered. Gaby shifts slightly next to him. When he looks up to her there is a small smile on her face.

“Are you back with us?”

Napoleon gives her the tiniest nod and for once the movement doesn’t hurt.

“Do you want to sit up?”

He huffs once. His voice is so full of gravel he can only hope that Gaby can understand him.

“Don’t know if I can.”                                                                                                      

He tries anyway.

It’s a very slow process, his muscles are on the verge of cramping up, but somehow he manages to get halfway upright. He straightens the blanket a little, looks up and meets a familiar pair of blue eyes across the room.

Peril regards him calmly, leaning in the far corner. He looks normal, as if he didn’t kill the head of the Circle with a simple _handshake_ , which is probably the most unbelievable kill Napoleon has ever witnessed.

For the first time in Napoleon’s life, he finds he doesn’t know what to say.

_Hello Peril, this might come as a surprise, but I’m not your cat but a slave of the Circle, though I’m not really sure about my membership status right now. And thank you for giving me free food and shelter, even if the first few batches of cans left something to be desired. By the way would you hand me the ring Sanders’ was wearing for no particular reason?_

Somehow he doesn’t think this will cut it.

His eyes flick back between Peril and Gaby. He clears his throat once.

“Where are we?”

Peril speaks up first.

“Still Italy.”

But not exactly where. Illya doesn’t trust him enough him to tell him that.

That doesn’t surprise Napoleon. What surprises him is the sting of it.  

He involuntarily glances at Illya’s fingers. His ring is not on them.

Peril gives him a long look before stepping away from the wall and leaving the room, which is far from the confrontation Napoleon had expected. He watches with Gaby as the door shuts behind the  Hunter.

Gaby sighs quietly beside him.

“You know, he’s been brooding since we left your house.”

Napoleon lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding.

“He didn’t take the whole shapeshifter-business too well, I guess?”

“Can you blame him?”

The I-told-you-so isn’t exactly silent and she’s right, he knows. Peril took him in and cared for him in, when he didn’t have to, and all he got in return was a proverbial punch to his face. Peril has been lied to for weeks in a way that was unforeseeable and personal. Napoleon had his reasons, but that doesn’t necessarily soften the blow.

“Not one bit. I’m just glad I’m missing no limbs.”

Gaby draws her eyebrows together.

“Do you really think he would hurt you?”

Napoleon opens his mouth, closes it again. In all this time he spent with Peril, the Hunter would rather have cut his hand off than laying it on him, but things are different now, aren’t they? He’s not the harmless pet, he’s an enemy agent, despite Peril having now fled the Guild and Napoleon’s being outcast from the Circle. Neither could have known that it would turn out this way when they first met. He doesn’t know what Illya’s original mission was at the theater, but Napoleon’s escape alone probably didn’t make Peril any more popular with Oleg.

And now Napoleon is still bound to his ring and Peril has every reason to distrust him.

Avoiding Gaby’s inquiring gaze, Napoleon takes a look around the room he’s in. Rundown carpet, little furniture besides the bed they’re in, most likely a random, cheap motel.

“How long was I out?”

“About a day.”

Gaby’s eyes stay on him thoughtfully, before she gets up from the bed.

“You should try to rest a little more while you can. Maybe the fever will be gone by the time you wake up.”

Napoleon hums and lets himself slide back down on the mattress, curling in on his side. Maybe everything will make more sense by then. He’s more exhausted than he ever remembers being. Forced changes were never pleasant, but this time was especially bad.

He eyes the empty spot Gaby leaves beside him and he has the strange urge to call her back. The idea of sleeping alone in a bed feels somehow wrong.

He watches her make the way to the door, where she pauses.

“Do you need anything else?”

_His ring._

“I’m fine.”

She regards him for a moment.

“The ring is your token, isn’t it?”

Napoleon’s head snaps up at that.

“It’s safe, don’t worry. We took it with us when we left.”

With his finger still ringless, it’s not that reassuring.

* * *

It’s half a day later that he feels well enough to leave the bed. As he rises, he slings the sheet around his hips in an afterthought. Modesty is a strange concept when one spends enough time without needing clothes

Walking is still difficult. He stumbles twice, but refuses to use the wall as a constant support on his way to the door.

The door isn’t locked. Napoleon didn’t hear Gaby lock it behind her when she left, but a small part of him is still surprised when he is able to push it open.

Carefully he shuffles into the simple living room, where Gaby is lounging on a couch reading a newspaper in her hands. Peril leans against the far corner as if he just waited for him to make a move. He probably was.

Gaby lowers her newspaper eyebrows raised.

“Are you sure that you should be up?”

He most likely shouldn’t. His eyes flick to Peril shortly, who just stares at him with an unreadable expression. Gaby is probably the safer bet to ask for anything.

“I need to clean up a bit.”

Gaby face softens and she tilts her head to a door on her left, a few feet away from Illya. “The bathroom.”

Napoleon murmurs his thanks and continues his way carefully.

Peril’s eyes still rest on him as he wills his feet to reach the door without stumbling.

The bathroom is nothing but a small shower tucked in one corner and a bar of soap on the counter, which is after so long all he dared to hope for.

He closes the bathroom door behind him. When he reaches down to turn the key, his eyes fall on his bare finger, hesitating to lock himself in. Was there any use to it, when he could be forced to open the door anyway?

Dismissing the thought, he grabs the soap and fumbles a little at the shower dials before he turns it on. The water turns hot in only a few moments and the pressure isn’t half bad. Napoleon feels a smile tug on his mouth as he steps under the spray.

Folding his ears close to his head, he closes his eyes and just lets the water run down over him.

His body still doesn’t feel quite right. It’s too tall, its limbs feel too long, the fingers too complex. He takes a deep breath and concentrates on the drops hitting his skin. Although his body is still sore and hypersensitive, he missed this. Who would blame him if his first shower in what feels like forever takes a little longer?

The temperature of the water slowly starts to drop. The hot water supply of the motel is probably not the best.

When he starts to use the soap, his fingers feel clumsy and uncoordinated and he drops it almost instantly.

With a small sigh he blinks his eyes open and bends down to pick up the soap.

When he straightens up again, the edges of his vision starts to blur. Instinctively, he braces his arms against the wall and manages to sink down somewhat gently instead of crashing down, when his legs finally give out.

The tiles are hard against his knees. He reaches up to stop the water, but black spots begin to dot his vision, making it almost impossible to keep his eyes open. Bracing himself on his forearms and knees, he crouches down and tries to wait it out.

He doesn't know how much time passes, but every time he tries to get up again, a new, stronger wave of dizziness washes over him.

The darkness behind his closed eyelids starts to tilt, making him sick.

The water is cold by now.

He dimly hears the door slam open behind him. He should have locked it.

He can barely make out a tall form through all the water hitting his face. His knees and arms give way and he collapses on his side. He doesn't quite know if he passes out from his head hitting the tiles or if it's the other way around.

* * *

He wakes up in the same bed, his head pounding, wrapped in a few towels.

It takes a few moments for Napoleon to push past the confusion.

Illya must have dragged him back here, after he passed out.

A groan escapes him, both because his head won't stop hurting and bit of embarrassment.

When he props himself up, next to him is a glass of water and a white pill, painkiller probably. Taking a chance, Napoleon pops it in his mouth and swallows. Why would they try to drug him, if they could just Command him.

Waiting for the effects to kick in, he settles back against the pillows.  To his surprise, he finds a pile of clothes left at the foot of his bed.

Curiously he reaches for it. It's a black turtleneck and slacks. Napoleon hums quietly, not really sure what it’s all supposed to mean.

His entire body still aches as he dresses himself, the painkiller kicking in slowly. The turtleneck is a little tight around his shoulders and the sleeves a little long. His tail still sticks out between the shirt and the pants, but it will do for now. He combs his fingers through his hair, attempting to flatten his curls against his head, but without a little product the battle is lost.

There’s a knock on the door.

Napoleon hesitates. Maybe he should ignore it, giving him a little more time to think.

For a few moments nothing happens, then another knock.

With a sigh Napoleon calls out and the door opens.

Gaby sticks her head in. “Can we talk?”

He nods silently. Gaby enters the room into the room, Peril following behind her. Peril stops at the foot of his bed, crossing his arms over his chest, contemplating him. Gaby settles on the edge on the bed.

“Please don’t pull another stunt like that.”

Napoleon shakes his head. Probably not anyway.

Gaby smiles a little. “Are you well enough to get up? We need to leave soon.”

The question is, if _we_ includes Napoleon, or not.

He glances at Illya. The Hunter’s eyes are still fixed on him, but they lost their hardness.

After a few moments, Illya reaches into the pockets of his pants.

Napoleon's ears perk up as Illya approaches, his hand beginning to rise out of his pocket.

Illya holds out his palm. In it is Napoleon’s ring.

He always imagined a chance of being just clever enough, fast enough, and he would steal his ring back and disappear before anyone could stop him. He never expected to have his ring within such easy reach now, openly offered to him. 

Somehow he can’t move.

He forces his eyes away from his token and looks up to Illya’s face. A voice inside him screams at him to just take his token and run as fast as he can. He ignores it.

“Why?”

Illya knows what this is, what he could do with it. He’s surprise with how calm he sounds. His mind is racing. Illya already knows what this is, what he could do with it.

The Hunter avoids his eyes, his shoulders falling a little.

“You were a friend.”

Napoleon’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise at the statement.  Illya glances back at him. His accent in English is just as strong as it is in German.

 “You were a friend, when you did not have to be. So take it and go.”

Too stunned to move, Napoleon just keeps on staring at him, watching Illya’s fingers twitch, his eyes avoiding him.

A few moments pass, before Illya simply drops the ring to the bed in front of him. Without another word the Russian turns on his heels and walks swiftly out of the room.

Napoleon can only blink as he watches him leave the room.

Only the door falling close snaps Napoleon out of his stupor. His ring is still lying on the bed. Cautiously Napoleon picks it up.

The metal feels cold and familiar against his palm. He can see the engraving he put there himself. Holding his breath, he slips it on his finger. It fits perfectly.

He lowers his hand, still aware of the ring’s weight. The moment is surreal. He’s free now, but the rest of him doesn’t quite believe it yet. Creating this token was the worst decision of his life, but he can't change that. Truly destroying a token is nothing anyone ever accomplished. He isn't sure if he should bury it somewhere or keep it in sight.

“He means to say that you are free to go anywhere you choose.”

Napoleon flinches at Gaby’s voice. He turns to her guiltily, he had all but forgotten her presence.

“We are now in Venice and plan to set over to Yugoslavia. If you want to, you can join us.”

It’s not a bad plan. Snuffing out Sanders with all his spells would have been noticed by any magic users within a significant radius. Rome and the small village will be crawling with the Circle once they find out what exactly happened there. Yugoslavia is turf of the Hunters, the chances of them following are a lot less likely.

He glances down at his ring. It’s still on his finger. He’s free. He swallows once before looking up.

Isn’t this what he wanted just a few days ago? He never thought that he would get the chance. Strangely being free became such a vague concept, that he’s not sure what to do with it now.

The only thing he’s sure about is that he owes Gaby and Illya his sanity and his life. Despite everything, they made him feel like there is a place he can belong beyond the Circle. He doesn’t want to leave them, but he’s not staying on the expense of their safety. He glances briefly at the door and then at Gaby.

He’s not as mobile as he’d like to be and holing himself up in one of his houses is out of question, when he doesn’t know which ones have been compromised.

He already cost them almost two days. They are running out of time.

“I’m going to slow you down.”

“We know.”

Gaby looks at him unwavering.

Napoleon hums lowly. There’s still something else he needs to know.

“Is that invitation from you or Peril?”

The question makes Gaby chuckle a little.

“From me, but he didn’t object when I told him about it. Don’t worry too much.”

Not objecting and agreeing are not exactly the same though. From Napoleon’s point of few, Illya for sure is understandably not quite thrilled about the new situation. Only time will tell, if they can work this out. If it comes to it, Napoleon will make his way on his own. Still he hopes that Gaby is right.

“I’ll come with you then.”

 A smirk lifts Gaby’s lips.

“Good. We’re leaving now.”

Napoleon raises his eyebrows at her as she stands up from the bed. Well, that is fast. It doesn’t seem like Gaby actually considered that he would turn them down. Maybe she was right about that as well.

Making his way out of the bed is easier than the last time, the painkillers doing their job quite well.

He’s still a little uncoordinated as he steps out of the bedroom. Peril is waiting for them at the door, his jacket and hat already on. Their eyes meet across the room and Napoleon recognizes the look on his face. He saw it back in Berlin, when Illya was studying Gaby’s file, he saw it on the train after Illya covered Gaby with his jacket, in Rome when Illya chose to sleep in his turtleneck. He is worried, unsure what’s about to happen, how this will turn out right.

A few days ago this would have been Napoleon’s cue to go over, offer him comfort and it is strange that he can’t anymore. Napoleon guesses he has get used to not being the beloved pet, just as much as Illya has to.

There’s another jacket and shoes at the door for him. Putting them on is a struggle, but neither Illya nor Gaby show any impatience.

When Napoleon turns to the door, he comes face to face with Peril. The Hunter has his arms crossed in front of his chest and a small frown on his face, effectively blocking his path. He also looks him up and down, eventually settling on up.

"You can't go out like this."

Napoleon blinks once in surprise, feeling a little affronted.

"Excuse me?"

He’s about to comment on Peril’s taste in clothing, when he sees Peril gesture at the top of his head.

“You did not have those in Berlin.”

Napoleon needs a second to realize what Peril is referring to. His ears twitch once.

Well, he still needs to get used to this body again.

“I was in a different form.”

"Can you make them disappear again?"

The mere thought of shifting right now, even voluntarily, makes his stomach drop.

"I'd rather not."

Peril hums once.

With a shrug he takes off his cap and plops it firmly on Napoleon’s head, too quick for Napoleon to duck away.

A little dumbfounded Napoleon stares at the Hunter.

There’s a small twitch at the corners of Peril’s mouth before the Hunter turns back to the door.

"Coming, Cowboy?"

Illya notices the slip-up the same moment Napoleon does, the Hunter’s hand pausing shortly on its way to the door handle.

Now that Napoleon has actually the chance to correct him, he isn’t sure that he minds the nickname. It feels familiar by now, comforting in a way.

He straightens the cap on his head, checking that his ears are covered.

“After you, Peril.”

Illya turns back around to him, looking mildly confused.

“Peril?”

“Only fair.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings for character death, violence and coercion, implied humiliation and unhealthy thought patterns

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you all for reading, especially for leaving kudos and comments! 
> 
> This is the end of the first part of the series. (I did mention this is going to be a series, didn't I?) The second part will take a while and I have a few other things I want to write, so don't expect a new chapter too soon. You can always hit me up and chat with me on [My Tumblr](http://deducitetemporacarmen.tumblr.com/) in the meanwhile :)
> 
> Thanks again to my beta Ursa_Es!
> 
> The lovely Scriptserpent drew something for this fic! Check it out [here](http://scriptserpent.tumblr.com/post/157638315710/he-tugs-at-the-shredded-clothes-he-stuffed-into)!
> 
>  
> 
> Btw there's a winter holiday gift exchange for the man from uncle in the making. For anyone interested, here's the link. Sign up closes at October the 8th. archiveofourown.org/collections/TMFUGiftExchange2017


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